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THE  TH I  EfriEl^ 
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F.X    J JJMLL5L 

C^    -1921- 

ANNE   DILLON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


HUGH  WALPOLE  in  this  book  has  done  in  a 
remarkable  manner  a  piece  of  interpretative 
fiction.  His  Thirteen  Travellers  are  passengers, 
so  to  speak,  in  a  coach  that  is  beset  on  all  sides  by 
armed  bands  and  destructive  forces.  His  characters 
are  of  the  London  life  he  knows  so  well  and  we  see 
them  caught  in  the  grip  of  an  elemental  force,  their 
landmarks  obliterated,  striving  to  make  the  old  life 
go  in  a  world  that  is  awry. 

Peter  Westcott,  an  old  friend  to  all  Walpole  readers, 
reappears  and  there  are  a  group  of  others  through 
whose  lives  we  step  into  a  life  full  of  the  little-known 
dramas  of  the  tragic  years  of  1914-19. 

In  effect  the  book  is  a  cross-section  of  London  life, 
including  within  its  scopes  many  types  and  social 
levels,  all  of  them  contriving  to  create  an  illusion  of 
a  rich  period  of  human  experience,  vividly  remembered 
and  faithfully  and  dramatically  set  down.  One  moves 
from  figure  to  figure  with  keen  expectancy  and  with 
each  comes  the  sense  of  a  new  glimpse  of  a  human 
heart,  of  contact  with  life  as  it  is. 


THE  THIRTEEN 
TRAVELLERS 


HUGH  WALPOLE 


BooTcs  by  HUGH  WALPOLE 

NOVELS 

THE  WOODEN   HOBSE 

THE  GODS  AND  MK.   PEERIN" 

THE  GREEN  MIREOB 

THE  DARK   FOREST 

THE  SECRET  CITY 

THE  CAPTIVES 

ROMANCES 

MARA  dice:  AT   FORTY 

THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

FORTITUDE 

THE  DUCHESS  OP   WBEXB 

BEORT  STORIES 

THE   GOLDEN  SCARECROW 

JEREMY 

THE   THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

BELLES-LETTERS 

JOSEPH   CONRAD:   A   CRITICAL  STUDY 


THE    THIRTEEN 
TRAVELLERS 


BY 

HUGH   WALPOLE 

Author   of   "Tlie   Captives,"   "Jeremy,"    "The   Secret 
City,"  "The  Green  Mirror,"  Etc. 


NEW  >*ar  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPTEIGHT,    1921, 
BT  GEORGE  H.    DORAN   COMPANY 


COPTMGHT,    1920,    1921, 
BT  THE  PICTORIAL  REVIEW   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMEEICA 


^/\ 


^n  c 


TO 

JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 

IN    FRIENDSHIP 


1062219 


"After  they  were  blown  up  they  were  blown 
down  again,  and  then  had  to  pause  for  a 
moment  to  get  their  breath.  .  ." — Hanspickle. 

Henry  Galleon 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I    Absalom  Jay .  13 

^f^II    Fanny  Close 34 

'III    The  Hon.  Clh^e  Torby 51 

lY    Miss  Morganhurst 69 

V    Peter  Westcott        86 

"VI    Lucy  Moon 107 

VII    Mrs.  Porter  and  Miss  Allen 132 

^/VIII    Lois  Drake 151 

IX    Mr.  Nls 175 

-X    Lizzie  Eand 200 

XI    Nobody 221 

^«SII  BOMBASTES  FuRioso     ......      .      .      .  252 


THE    THIRTEEN   TRAVELLERS 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

No  character  in  this  hook  is  drawn  from  any 
person  now  living. 


THE  THIRTEEN 
TRAVELLERS 


ABSALOM  JAY 

SOMEWHEEE  in  the  early  nineties  was  Absalom 
Jay's  first  period.  He  was  so  well-known  a  figure 
in  London  at  that  time  as  to  he  frequently  caricature(f 
in  the  weekly  society  journals,  and  Spy's  "Absalom," 
that  appeared  in  the  1894  volume  of  Vanity  Fair,  is 
one  of  his  most  successful  efforts.  In  those  days  were 
any  one  so  ignorant  as  to  be  compelled  to  ask  who  Jay 
was  he  would  probably  receive  the  answer :  "Oh,  don't 
you  know  ?  He's  a  cousin  of  John  Beaminster's.  He 
founded  the  "Warrington"  with  Pemmy  Stevens.  He's 
.  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  He  goes  everywhere. 
Knows  more  people  than  anyone  else  in  London,  I 
should  imagine." 

Spy's  caricature  of  him  has  caught  that  elegant 
smartness  that  was  Absalom's  most  marked  individu- 
ality, too  smart  critics  have  been  known  to  say;  and 
certainly,  if  the  ideal  of  correct  dress  is  that  no  one 
should  notice  your  clothes  Absalom  was  not  correct. 
Everyone  always  noticed  his  clothes.     But  here  again 

13 


14  THE  THIETEEIsT  TRAVELLEES 

one  must  be  fair.  It  may  not  have  been  altogether  his 
clothes  that  one  noticed.  From  very  early  years  hia 
hair  was  snow-whit^e,  and  he  wore  it  brushed  straight 
back  from  his  pink  forehead  in  wavy  locks.  He  wore 
also  a  little  white  tufted  Imperial.  He  had  an  eyeglass 
that  hung  on  a  thick  black  cord.  His  favourite  colour 
was  a  dark  blue,  and  with  this  he  wore  spats  (in  summer 
of  a  truly  terrific  whiteness),  a  white  slip,  black  tie, 
and  pearl  pin.  He  wore  wonderful  boots  and  shoes  and 
was  said  to  have  more  of  these  than  any  other  man  in 
London.  It  was  also  said  that  his  feet  were  the  smallest 
(masculine)  in  the  British  Isles.  He  was  made  altogether 
on  a  very  small  scale.  He  was  not,  I  should  think,  more 
than  five-feet-six  in  height,  but  was  all  in  perfect  pro- 
portion. His  enemies,  of  whom  he  had,  like  everyone 
else,  a  few,  said  that  his  wonderful  pink  complexion 
was  not  entirely  ^Nature's  work,  but  here  his  enemies 
lied.  Even  at  the  very  last  he  did  not  give  way  to  the 
use  of  cosmetics.  He  was  the  kindest-hearted  little 
mau  in  the  world,  and  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity  was 
as  happy  as  the  day  was  long.  He  lived  entirely  for 
Society,  and  because  this  is  intended  to  be  a  true  por- 
trait, I  must  admit  that  there  was  something  of  the 
snob  in  his  chai'acter.  He  himself  admitted  it  frankly. 
"I  like  to  be  with  people  of  rank,"  he  would  say,  "simply 
because  I'm  more  comfortable  with  them.  I  know  just 
what  to  say  to  Johnny  Beaminster,  and  I'm  tongue-tied 
with  the  wife  of  my  barber.     Que  voulez-vousf" 

I'm  afraid,  however,  that  it  went  a  little  further  than 
that.  In  the  Season  his  looking-glass  was  thronged 
with  cards,  invitations  to  dinner  and  dances  and  musical 


ABSALOM  JAY  15 

evenings.  "I  live  for  Society,"  he  said,  "as  some  men 
live  for  killing  pheasants,  aJid  other  men  for  piling  up 
money.  My  fun  is  as  good  as  another  man's.  At  any 
rate  I  get  good  company." 

It  was  his  intention  to  be  seen  at  every  London 
function,  public  or  private,  that  could  be  considered  a 
first-class  function;  people  wondered  how  he  got  about 
as  he  did.  It  seemed  as  though  there  must  be  three  or 
four  Absaloms. 

His  best  time  was  during  the  last  few  years  of  King 
Edward  VII.'s  reign.  His  funny  little  anxious  face 
could  be  frequently  seen  in  those  groups  of  celebrities 
invited  to  meet  the  King  at  some  famous  house-party. 
It  was  said  that  the  King  liked  his  company,  but  I 
don't  know  how  that  can  have  been  because  Absalom  was 
never  in  his  brightest  days  very  amusing.  He  talked 
a  good  deal,  but  always  said  just  what  everj'one  else 
said.  He  was  asked  everywhere  because  he  was  so  safe, 
because  he  was  so  willing  to  fetch  and  carry,  and 
because  he  knew  exactly  what  it  was  that  ladies  wanted. 
He  entertained  only  a  little  in  return,  but  nobody 
minded  that  because,  as  everyone  knew,  "he  really 
hadn't  a  penny  in  the  world" — which  meant  that  he 
had  about  £1,500  a  year  in  various  safe  investments. 

A  year  before  the  war  he  was  seized  with  a  little 
gust  of  speculation.  Against  the  advice  of  'Tony" 
Pennant,  who  looked  after  his  investments  for  him, 
he  ventured  to  buy  here  and  sell  there  with  rather 
serious  results.  He  pulled  up  just  in  time  to  save 
disaster,  but  he  had  to  give  up  his  little  house  in 
Knightsbridge  and  took  a  flat  at  Hortons  in  Duke 


16  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

Street.  Althougli  this  was  a  "service'^  flat  lie  still 
retained  his  man  James,  who  had  been  with  him  for  a 
number  of  years  and  knew  his  habits  to  perfection. 

He  made  his  rooms  at  Hortons  charming,  and  he 
had  the  dai-k  blue  cui'tains  and  the  gold  mirror  bristling 
with  invitations,  and  the  old  coloured  prints  and  the 
big,  signed  photogi-aphs  of  Queen  Alexandra  and  the 
Duchess  of  Wrexe  in  their  silver  frames,  and  the  heavy 
silver  cigarette-box  that  King  Edward  had  given  him, 
all  in  their  accustomed  places.  Of  course,  the  flat  waa 
small.  His  silver-topped  bottles  and  silver-backed 
bi*ushes,  and  rows  of  boots  and  shoes  and  the  two  big 
trouser-presses  simply  overwhelmed  his  bedroom. 

But  he  was  over  sixty-five  now  (although  he  would 
have  been  horrified  if  he  thought  that  you  knew  it) 
and  he  didn't  need  much  space — moreover,  he  was 
always  out. 

Then  came  the  war,  and  the  first  result  of  this  was 
that  James  joined  up!  During  those  first  August  days 
Absalom  hadn't  fancied  that  the  war  would  touch  him 
at  all,  although  he  was  hotly  patriotic  and  cried  out 
daily  at  the  "Warrington"  that  he  wished  he  were  a 
lad  again  and  could  shoulder  a  gun. 

James's  departure  frightened  him;  then  *'Tony" 
Pennant  explained  to  him  that  his  investments  were 
not  so  secure  as  they  had  been  and  he'd  be  lucky  if  any 
of  them  brought  him  in  anything.  And  of  course  the 
whole  of  his  social  world  vanished — no  more  parties,  no 
more  balls,  no  more  Ascots  and  Goodwoods,  no  more 
shooting  in  Scotland,  no  more  opera.  He  bustled 
around  then  in  a  tinilv  remarkable  manner  and  attacked 


ABSALOM  JAY  17 

his  friends  witli  the  pertinacity  of  a  bluebottle.  The 
war  was  not  a  month  old  before  Bryce-Drumnaond 
secured  him  a  job  in  one  of  tlie  Ministries  at  six  hun- 
dred a  year.  It  was  not  a  very  difficult  job  (it  con- 
sisted for  the  most  part  in  interviewing  eager  young 
men,  assuring  them  that  he  would  do  his  best  for  them, 
and  then  sending  them  along  to  somebody  else).  He 
had  a  room  to  himself,  and  a  lady  typist  who  looked 
efter  him  like  a  mother.  He  was  quite  delighted  when 
he  discovered  that  she  was  a  daughter  of  the  Bishop 
of  Polchester  and  very  well  connected.  She  was  most 
efficient  and  did  everything  for  him. 

He  took  his  work  very  seriously  indeed,  and  was 
delighted  to  be  "doing  his  bit."  ISTo  one  knew  exactly 
what  it  was  that  he  did  at  the  Ministry,  and  he  himself 
was  very  vague  about  it,  but  he  hinted  at  great  things 
and  magnificent  company.  During  those  first  yeai-s 
when  there  were  so  many  wonderful  rumoui-s,  he 
hinted  and  hinted  and  hinted.  "Well,  I  mustn't  men- 
tion names,  of  course ;  but  you  can  take  it  from  me " 

and  people  really  did  think  he  did  know.  He  had  been 
in  the  closest  touch  with  so  many  gi-eat  people  before 
the  war  that  it  was  only  natural  that  he  should  be  in 
touch  with  them  still.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  knew 
nothing  except  what  his  typist  told  him.  He  led  an 
extremely  quiet  life  during  these  years,  but  he  didn't 
mind  that  because  he  understood  that  it  was  the  right 
thing  to  do.  All  the  best  people  were  absorbed  in  their 
work — even  old  Lady  x\gatha  Beaminster  was  running 
a  home  for  Serbians,  and  Eachel  Seddon  was  a  V.A.D. 
in  France,  and  old  "Plumtree"  Caudle  was  a  Special 


18  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLEES 

Ck)nstabla  He  did  not  therefore  feel  left  out  of  things, 
because  there  was  nothing  really  to  be  left  out  of. 
Moreover,  he  was  so  hard  up  that  it  was  safer  to  be 
quiet  All  the  more  would  he  enjoy  himself  when  the 
war  was  over. 

But  as  the  years  went  on  and  there  seemed  to  be  no 
sign  of  the  war  being  over,  he  began  to  be  querulous. 
He  missed  James  terribly,  and  when  in  the  summer  of 
1917  he  heard  that  James  was  kiUed  in  Mesopotamia  it 
was  a  very  serious  blow.  He  seemed  to  be  suddenly 
quite  alone  in  the  world.  In  Hortons  now  they 
employed  only  women,  and  the  girl  straight  from 
Glebeshire  who  'Valeted"  him  seemed  to  have  but  little 
time  to  listen  to  his  special  needs,  being  divided  up 
between  four  flats  and  fijiding  it  all  she  could  do,  poor 
girl,  to  satisfy  them  aU.  "After  the  war,"  Mr.  ]N'ix, 
the  manager  of  Hortons,  assured  Absalom,  "we  shall 
have  men  again !" 

"After  the  war!" — those  three  simple  little  words 
became  the  very  Abracadabra  of  Absalom's  life.  "After 
the  war"  everything  would  be  as  it  had  always  been — 
prices  would  go  do-\vQ,  Society  would  come  up,  his  gold 
min'or  would  once  again  be  stuck  about  with  invitations, 
he  would  find  a  successor  to  James,  and  a  little  house. 
What  would  he  live  on?  Oh,  that  would  be  all  right 
They  would  keep  him  at  the  Ministry.  He  was  so 
useful  there  that  he  couldn't  conceive  that  they  would 
ever  get  on  without  him — there  would  be  his  work,  of 
course,  and  probably  they  would  raise  his  salary.  He 
was  an  optimist  about  the  future.  I^othing  made  him 
so  indignant  as  unjustified  pessimism.     When  someone 


ABSALOM  JAY  19 

talked  pessimistically  it  was  as  though  he,  Absalom  Jay, 
were  being  personally  threatened.  Throughout  the  ter- 
rible spring  of  1918  he  remained  optimistic.  "Britain 
couldn't  be  beaten" — by  which  he  meant  that  Absalom 
Jay  must  be  assured  of  his  future  comforts.  In  spite 
of  all  that  had  happened  he  was  as  incapable  in  June, 
1918,  as  he  had  been  in  June,  1914,  of  imagining  a 
different  world,  a  different  balance  of  moral  and  ethical 
values.  Then  the  tide  turned.  During  that  summer 
and  early  autumn  of  1918  Absalom  was  as  happy  as 
he  had  ever  been.  He  simply  lived  for  the  moment 
when  "life  would  begin  again."  He  began  to  go  out  a 
little,  to  pay  calls,  to  visit  an  old  friend  or  two.  He 
found  changes,  of  course.  His  own  contemporaries 
seemed  sti-angely  old;  many  of  them  had  died,  many 
of  them  had  shattered  nei'ves,  many  were  frightened 
of  the  future. 

If  they  were  frightened  it  was  their  own  fault,  he 
declared.  They  would  talk  of  ridiculous  things  like  the 
Kussian  Eevolution — nothing  angered  him  more  than 
to  hear  chatter  about  the  Russian  Revolution — as  though 
that  absurd  affair  with  its  cut-throats  and  Bolsheviks 
and  Jews  and  murderers  could  have  anything  to  do  with 
a  real  country  like  England. 

It  was  all  the  fault  of  our  idiotic  government;  one 
regiment  of  British  soldiers  and  that  trouble  would 
have  been  over.  .  .  .  ilSTo,  he'd  no  patience.  .  .  . 

IsTovember  11th  came,  and  with  it  the  Ai*mistice;  he 
actually  rode  all  the  way  down  Whitehall  on  a  loriy 
and  waved  a  flag.  He  was  excited,  it  seemed  as  though 
the  whole  world  were  crying,  "Hurray!    Absalom  Jay! 


20  THE  THIRTEEN  TEAYELLEES 

You    were    riglit,    after    all.     You    shall    have    your 
reward." 

He  pictured  to  himself  what  was  coming:  1919  would 
be  the  year;  let  those  dirty  ruffians  try  and  imitate 
Russian  methods.     They  would  see  what  they  would 
get.     He  resumed  his  old  haughtiness  of  demeanour  to 
dependents.     It  was  necessary  in  these  days  to  show 
them  their  place.    ^STot  that  he  was  never  kind.     When 
they  behaved  properly  he  was  very  kind  indeed.     To 
Eanny,  the  portress  at  Hortons — a  nice  girl  with  a 
ready  smile  and  an  agreeable  willingness  to  do  anything, 
however  tiresome — he  was  delightful,  asking  her  about 
her  relations  and  once  telling  her  that  he  was  grateful 
for  what  she  did.    He  was  compelled,  however,  to  speak 
haughtily  to  Eose,  the  "valet,"    He  was  forced  often 
to  ring  twice  for  her,  and  once  when  she  came  running 
and  out  of  breath  and  he  showed  her  that  she  had  put 
some  of  his  waistcoats  into  one  drawer  and  some  into 
another,  thereby  making  it  very  difficult  for  him  to  find 
them,  she  actuallv  tossed  her  head  and  muttered  some- 
thing.    He  spoke  to  her  very  kindly  then,  and  showed 
her  how  things  were  done  in  the  best  houses,  because, 
after  all,  poor  child,  she  was  straight  up  from  the  coun- 
try.    However,  she  did  not  take  his  kindliness  in  at  all 
the  right  spirit,  but  burst  out  angrily  that  "times  was 
different  now,   and  one  was  as  good  as  another" — a 
shocking  thing  to  say,  and  savouring  directly  of  Bolshe- 
vism. 

He  was  getting  into  the  habit  of  calling  almost  every- 
thing Bolshevism. 

Then  the  first  blow  fell.     He  found  a  letter  on  his 


ABSALOM  JAY  21 

table  at  the  Ministry;  lie  opened  it  carelessly  and  read 
therein  that  as  the  war  was  in  process  of  being  "wound 
up/'  changes  were  taking  place  that  would  compel  the 
Ministry,  most  reluctantly,  to  do  without  Mr.  Jay's 
services.    AYould  he  mind  taking  a  month's  notice  ?  .  .  . 

He  would  mind  very  much  indeed — Mind  ?  It  was 
as  though  a  thunderbolt  had  struck  him  on  the  very  top 
of  his  neat  little  head.  He  stood  in  front  of  the 
Ministerial  fireplace,  his  little  legs  extended,  the  letter 
trembling  in  his  hand,  his  eyes,  if  the  truth  must  be 
spoken,  flushed  with  tears.  Dismissed  I  With  a  month's 
notice !  He  would  speak  ...  he  would  protest  ...  he 
would  abuse.  ...  In  the  end,  of  course,  he  did  nothing. 
BrycerDrummond  said  he  was  so  very  sorry,  "but  really 
everythin'  was  tumblin'  about  one's  ears  these  days," 
and  offered  him  a  cigarette.  Lord  John,  to  whom  he 
appealed,  looked  distressed  and  said  it  was  "a  damn 
shame;  upon  his  word,  he  didn't  know  what  we  were 
all  coming  to.  .  .  ." 

Absalom  Jay  was  left;  he  realised  that  he  could  do 
nothing;  he  retired  into  Hortons. 

There  was  in  his  soul  a  fund  of  optimism,  or  rather,' 
to  speak  more  accurately,  it  took  him  time  to  realise 
the  shifting  sands  upon  which  his  little  house  was  built. 
He  made  now  the  very  most  of  Hortons.  It  is  true  that 
time  began  to  lie  heavy  upon  his  hands.  He  rose  very 
late  in  the  morning,  having  his  cup  of  tea  and  boiled 
egg  at  nine,  his  bath  at  ten ;  he  read  the  Moi'ning  Post 
for  an  hour ;  then  the  barber,  Merritt,  from  next  door, 
came  in  to  shave  him  and  give  him  the  news  of  the  day. 
Merritt  was  a  most  amusing  dark  and  dapper  little 


22  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

man.  In  liim  was  tiie  very  spirit  of  St.  James's,  and 
the  Lord  only  knows  how  many  businesses  he  carried 
on  beside  his  ostensible  hair-dressing  one.  He  could 
buy  anything  for  you,  and  sell  anything,  too !  And  his 
gossip!  "Well,  really,  Absalom  had  thought  himself 
a  good  gossip  in  his  day,  but  he  had  never  been  anything 
to  Merritt!  Of  course,  half-a-crown  was  a  good  deal 
for  a  shave,  and  Absalom  was  not  sure  whether  in  these 
days  he  ought  to  afford  it — "my  only  luxury"  he 
called  it. 

He  did  not  see  many  of  his  friends  this  Christmas 
time.  They  were  all  out  of  London  he  supposed.  He 
was  a  little  sui'prised  that  the  Beaumonts  hadn't  asked 
him  to  spend  Christmas  at  Hautoix.  In  the  old  days 
that  invitation  had  been  as  regular  as  the  Waits.  How- 
ever, they  had  lost  their  eldest  son  in  the  Cambrai 
fighting.  They  were  having  no  parties  this  Christmas, 
of  course. 

He  had  thought  that  the  Seddons  might  ask  him. 
He  got  on  so  well  with  Roddy  and  Rachel.  They  sent 
him  a  card  "from  Rollo,"  their  baby.  Kind  of  them 
to  remember  him !  So  he  busied  himself  about  the  flat 
He  was  preparing  for  the  future — for  that  wonderful 
time  when  the  war  would  be  really  and  truly  over,  and 
the  world  as  it  had  been  in  the  old  days.  His  life  was 
centred  in  Hortons  and  the  streets  that  surrounded  it. 
He  could  be  seen  every  morning  walking  up  Duke 
Street  into  Piccadilly.  He  knew  eveiy  shop  by  heart, 
the  picture  shops  that  seemed  to  be  little  offspring  of 
the  great  "Christie's"  round  the  corner,  with  their  col- 
oured   plates    from    Ackermann's    "Microcosm,"    and 


ABSALOM  JAY  23 

Pierce  Egan,  and  their  oils  of  large,  full-bosomed 
eigbteentli  centuiy  ladies ;  and  the  shops  with  the  china 
and  the  cabinets  and  the  lacquer  (everything  veiy 
expensive  indeed)  ;  and  Bottome's,  the  paper  shop,  with 
Mr.  Bottome's  humourous  comments  on  the  day's  poli- 
tics chalked  on  to  a  slate  near  the  door,  and  the  Vie 
Parisienne  very  large  in  the  window;  then  there  was 
the  shop  at  the  corner  of  Jermyn  Street,  with  the  silk 
dressing-gowns  of  dazzling  colours,  and  the  latest  fash- 
ions with  pink  silk  vests,  pyjamas;  and  the  gi'eat 
tobacconists  and  the  wine-windows  of  Fortnum  and 
Masons — at  last  the  familiar  broad  splendours  of 
Piccadilly  itself.  Up  and  down  the  little  old  streets 
that  had  known  all  the  famous  men  of  their  day,  that 
had  lodged  Thackeray  and  Swift  and  Dryden,  and  now 
lodged  Mr.  Bottomley  and  the  author  of  Mutt  and  Jeff, 
the  motors  rolled  and  hooted  and  honked,  and  the  mes- 
senger boys  whistled,  and  the  flower-man  went  up  and 
down  with  his  barrow,  and  everything  was  as  expensive 
and  pleasant  and  humourous  as  could  be.  All  this 
Absalom  Jay  adopted.  He  was  in  his  own  mind, 
although  he  did  not  know  it.  King  of  St.  James's,  and 
he  felt  that  they  must  all  be  very  glad  to  have  him 
there,  and  that  rents  must  have  gone  up  since  it  was 
known  that  he  had  taken  his  residence  among  them. 
He  even  went  in  one  day  and  expostulated  with  Mr. 
Bottome  for  having  the  Daily  Herald  in  his  window. 
Mr.  Bottome  agTced  with  him  that  it  was  not  a  "nice" 
paper,  but  he  also  added  that  sinister  sentence  that 
Absalom  was  getting  now   so  tired   of  hearing  that 


24  THE  THIKTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

"these  were  strange  times.  'E  didn't  know  what  we 
were  coming  to." 

'^Nonsense,  mj  good  man,"  said  Absalom  rather 
tartly,  "England  isn't  Russia." 

"Looks  damned  like  it  sometimes,"  said  Mr.  Bottome. 

Then  as  the  year  1919  extended  Absalom  began  to 
feel  terribly  lonely.  This  fear  of  loneliness  was  rapidly 
becoming  a  concrete  and  definite  terror,  lurking  behind 
the  curtains  in  his  flat,  ready  to  spring  out  upon  him 
at  any  moment.  Absalom  had  never  in  all  his  life  been 
alone.  There  had  always  been  people  around  him. 
Where  now  were  they  all  ?  Men  now  were  being  demo- 
bilised, houses  were  opening  again,  hospitals  were 
closing,  dances  were  being  given,  and  still  his  gold 
mirror  remained  innocent  of  invitations.  He  fancied, 
too  (he  was  becoming  very  sensitive  to  impressions), 
that  the  men  in  the  "Wan-ington"  were  not  so  eager  to 
see  him  as  thev  had  been.  He  went  to  the  "Warrington" 
a  great  deal  now  ''to  be  cheered  up."  He  talked  to  men 
to  whom  five  years  ago  he  would  not  have  condescended 
to  say  "Good-morning" — to  Isaac  Monteluke,  for  in- 
stance, and  Bandy  Manners.  Where  were  all  his  old 
friends?  They  did  not  come  to  the  club  any  longer, 
it  seemed.  He  could  never  find  a  bridge  four  now  with 
whom  he  was  really  at  home.  This  may  have  been 
partly  because  he  was  nervous  these  days  of  losing 
money — he  could  not  afford  it — and  he  did  not  seem 
to  have  his  old  control  of  his  temper.  Then  his  brain 
was  not  quite  so  active  as  it  had  been.  He  could  not 
remember  the  cards.  .  .  . 

One  day  he  heard  some  fellow  say:    "Well,  if  I'd 


ABSALOM  JAY  25 

had  my  way  I'd  chloroform  everyone  over  sixty.    "We've 
had  enough  of  the  old  duds  messing  all  the  world  up." 

Chloroform  all  the  old  duds !  What  a  terrible  thing 
to  say  ?  Why,  five  years  ago  it  had  been  the  other  way. 
Who  cared  then  what  a  young  man  said  ?  What  could 
he  knowi  After  all,  it  was  the  older  men  who  had  had 
the  experience,  who  knew  life,  who  could  tell  the 
others.  .  .  . 

He  found  himself  laying  down  the  law  about  things 
— giving  ultimatums  like — "They  ought  to  be  strung 
up  on  lamp-posts — pandering  to  the  ignorant  lower 
classes — that's  what  it  is." 

If  there  had  been  one  thing  above  all  others  that/ 
Absalom  had  hated  all  his  life  it  had  been  rudeness — ^^ 
there  was  the  unforgivable  sin.     As  a  young  man  he  i 
had  been  deferential  to  his  elders,  and  so  in  his  turn  ' 
he  expected  young  men  to  be  to  him  now.     But  they 
were  not.     I^o,  they  were  not.     He  had  positively  to 
give  up  the  "Warrington"  because  of  the  things  that  the 
young  men  said. 

There  was  a  new  trouble  now — the  trouble  of  money. 
His  investments  were  paying  very  badly,  and  the  income 
tax  was  absurd.  He  wrote  to  the  Times  about  his 
income  tax,  and  they  did  not  print  his  letter — did  not 
print  it  when  they  printed  the  letters  of  every  sort  of 
nobody.  Everything  was  so  expensive  that  it  took  all 
his  courage  to  look  at  his  weekly  bill.  He  must  eat 
less;  one  ate,  he  read  in  the  paper,  far  more  than  one 
needed.  So  he  gave  up  his  breakfast,  having  only  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  a  roll,  as  he  had  often  done  in  France 
in  the   old  days.    He  was   aware   suddenly   that   his 


26  THE  THIKTEEN  TEAVELLERS 

clothes  were  beginning  to  look  shabby.  Bacon,  the  valet, 
informed  him  of  this.  He  did  not  like  Bacon ;  he  found 
himself,  indeed,  sighing  for  the  departed  Rose.  Bacon 
was  austere  and  inhuman.  Hie  spoke  as  seldom  as  posr 
sible.  He  had  no  faults,  he  pressed  clothes  perfectly, 
kept  drawers  in  absolute  order,  did  not  drink  Absalom's 
claret  nor  smoke  Absalom's  cigarettes.  N"©  faults — but 
what  an  impossible  man !  Absalom  was  afraid  of  him. 
He  drew  his  little  body  together  under  the  bedclothes 
when  Bacon  called  him  in  the  morning  because  of 
Bacon's  ironical  eyes.  Bacon  gave  him  his  Times  as 
though  he  said:  "How  dare  you  take  in  the  Times — 
spend  threepence  a  day  when  you  are  as  poor  as  you 
are?" 

It  was  because  of  Bacon  that  Absalom  gave  up 
Merritt.  He  did  not  dare  to  have  him  when  Bacon 
knew  his  poverty. 

"I'm  going  to  shave  myself  in  the  future,  Merritt,'' 
he  said;  "it's  only  laziness  having  you."  Merritt  waa 
politely  sorry,  but  he  was  not  very  deeply  grieved.  Why 
should  he  be  when  he  had  the  King's  valet  and  Sir 
Edward  Hawksbury,  the  famous  K.C.,  and  Borden 
Hunt,  the  dramatist,  to  shave  every  morning  ? 

But  Absalom  missed  him  terribly.  He  was  now 
indeed  alone.  No  more  gossip,  no  more  laughter  over 
other  peoj)le's  weaknesses,  no  more  hearty  agreement 
over  the  wicked  selfishness  of  the  lower  orders. 

Absalom  gave  up  the  Times  because  he  could  not 
bear  to  see  the  lower  orders  encouraged.  All  this  talk 
about  their  not  having  enough  to  live  on — wicked  non- 
sense !     It  was  people  like  Absalom  who  had  not  enough 


ABSALOM  JAY  27 

to  live  on.  He  wrote  again  to  tlie  Times  and  said  so, 
and  again  they  did  not  publish  his  letter. 

Then  he  woke  from  sleep  one  night,  heard  the  clock 
strike  thi-ee,  and  was  desperately  frightened.  He  had 
had  a  dream.  What  dream  ?  He  could  not  remember. 
He  only  Jsnew  that  in  the  course  of  it  he  had  become 
very,  very  old ;  he  had  been  in  a  room  without  fire  and 
without  light ;  he  had  been  in  prison — faces  had  glared 
at  him,  cruel  faces,  young,  sneering,  menacing  faces. 
.  .  .  Hie  was  going  to  die.  .  .  .  He  awoke  with  a 
scream. 

J^ext  day  he  read  himself  a  very  serious  lecture.  He 
was  becoming  morbid ;  he  was  giving  in ;  he,  was  allow- 
ing himseK  to  be  afraid  .of  things.  He  must  pull  him- 
self up.  He  was  quite  severe  to  Bacon,  and  repri- 
manded him  for  bringing  his  breakfast  at  a  quarter  to 
nine  instead  of  half -past  eight.  He  made  out  then  a  list 
of  houses  that  he  would  visit.  They  had  forgotten  him 
■ — he  must  admit  that.  But  how  natural  it  was !  After 
all  this  time.  Everyone  had  forgotten  everybody. 
"Why,  he  had  forgotten  all  sorts  of  people!  Could  not 
remember  their  names! 

For  months  now  he  had  been  saying,  "After  the 
war,"  and  now  here  "after  the  war"  was.  It  was  May, 
and  already  Society  was  looking  something  like  itself. 
Covent  Garden  was  open  again.  Soon  there  would  be 
Ascot  and  Henley  and  Goodwood;  and  the  Peace  Cele^ 
brations,  perhaps,  if  only  those  idiots  at  Versailles 
moved  a  little  more  quickly !  He  felt  the  old  familiar 
stir  in  his  blood  as  he  saw  the  red  letters  and  the  green 
pillars  repainted,  saw  the  early  summer  sun  shine  upon 


28  THE  THIETEEN  TKAVELLERS 

the  glittering  windows  of  Piccadilly,  saw  tlie  gi'een 
shadows  of  Hyde  Park  shift  and  tremble  against  the 
pale  blue  of  the  evening  sky,  saw,  once  again,  the  private 
cars  quiver  and  tremble  behind  the  policeman's  hand 
in  the  Circus;  saw  Delysia's  name  over  the  Pavilion, 
and  the  posters  of  the  evening  papers,  and  the  fountains 
splashing  in  Trafalgar  Square. 

He  put  on  his  best  clothes  and  went  out. 

He  called  upon  Mary,  Countess  of  Gosport,  the 
Duchess  of  Aisles,  Lady  Glenrobert,  Mrs.  Leo  Torsch, 
and  dear  Rachel  Seddon.  At  the  Countess  of  Gosport's 
he  found  a  clergyman,  a  companion,  and  a  Chow;  at 
the  Duchess  of  Aisles'  four  young  Guardsmen,  two 
girls,  and  Isaac  Monteluke,  who  had  the  insolence  to 
patronise  him;  at  Lady  Glenrobert's  a  vast  crowd  of 
men  and  women  rehearsing  for  a  Peace  pageant  shortl5 
to  be  given  at  the  Albert  Hall ;  at  Mrs.  Leo  Torsch's  an 
incredible  company  of  artists,  writers,  and  actors, 
people  unwashed  and  unbrushed,  at  sight  of  whom 
Absalom's  very  soul  trembled ;  at  dear  Rachel's  chai-m- 
ing  young  people,  all  of  whom  looked  right  through 
him  as  though  he  were  an  easy  and  undisturbing  ghost. 

He  came  back  from  these  visits  a  weary,  miserable, 
and  tired  little  man.  Even  Rachel  had  seemed  to  have 
no  time  to  give  him,  .  .  .  An  incredible  lassitude 
spread  through  all  his  bones.  As  he  entered  the  portals 
of  'No.  2  a  boy  passed  him  with  a  Pall  Mall  poster. 
"RailwajTuen  issue  Ultimatum."  In  his  room  he  read 
a  Times  leader,  in  which  it  said  that  the  lower  classes 
were  starving  and  had  nowhere  to  sleep.  And  they 
called   the   Times   a  reactionary  paper!      The   lower 


ABSALOM  JAY  29 

classes  stai-ving!  What  about  the  upper  classes?  With 
his  door  closed,  in  his  own  deep  privacy,  suiTOunded 
by  his  little  gods,  his  mirror,  his  silver  frames,  and 
his  boot-trees,  he  wept — ^bitterly,  helplessly,  like  a  child. 

From  that  moment  he  had  no  courage.  Enemies 
seemed.,  to  be  on  every  side.  Everywhere  he  was 
insulted.  If  he  went  out  boys  pushed  against  him, 
taxi-men  swore  at  him,  in  the  shops  they  were  rude 
to  him !  There  was  never  room  in  the  omnibuses,  the 
taxis  were  too  expensive,  and  the  Tubes!  After  an 
attempt  to  reach  Russell  Square  by  Tube  he  vowed  he 
would  never  enter  a  Tube  door  again.  He  was  pushed, 
hustled,  struck  in  the  stomach,  sworn  at  both  by  attend 
ants  and  passengers,  jammed  between  stout  women, 
hurled  off  his  feet,  spoken  to  by  a  young  soldier  because 
he  did  not  give  up  his  seat  to  a  lady  who  haughtily 
refused  it  when  he  offered.  .  .  .  Tubes!  .  .  .  never 
again — never,  oh,  never  again! 

What  then  to  do?  Walking  tired  him  desperately. 
Everywhere  seemed  now  so  far  away ! 

So  he  remained  in  his  flat;  but  now  Hortons  itself 
was  different.  Now  that  he  was  confined  to  it  it  was 
very  small,  and  he  was  always  timibling  over  things. 
A  pipe  burst  one  morning,  and  his  bathroom  was 
flooded.  The  bathroom  wall  paper  began  to  go  the 
strangest  and  most  terrible  colours — it  was  purple  and 
pink  and  green,  and  there  were  splotches  of  white  mil- 
dew that  seemed  to  move  before  your  eyes  as  you  lay  in 
your  bath  and  watched  them.  Absalom  went  to  Mr. 
Nix,  and  Mr.  Nix  said  that  it  should  be  seen  to  at  once, 
but  day  after  day  went  by  and  nothing  was  done.  When 


30  THE  THIRTEEi^  TEAVELLEES 

Mr.  Nix  was  appealed  to  lie  said  rather  restively  that 
he  was  very  sorry  hut  he  was  doing  his  best — labour 
was  so  difficult  to  get  now — *'You  could  not  rely  on 
the  men." 

"But  they've  got  to  come!"  screamed  Absalom. 

Mr.  Nix  shrugged  his  shoulders;  from  his  lips  fell 
those  fatal  and  now  so  monotonous  words: 

"We're  living  in  changed  times,  Mr.  Jay." 

Changed  times!  Absalom  should  think  we  were. 
Everyone  was  ruder  and  ruder  and  ruder.  Bills  were 
beginning  to  worry  him  terribly — such  little  bills,  but 
men  would  come  and  wait  downstairs  in  the  hall  for 
them. 

The  loneliness  increased  and  wrapped  him  closer  and 
closer.  His  temper  was  becoming  atrocious  as  he  well 
knew.  Bacon  now  paid  no  attention  to  his  wishes,  his 
meals  were  brought  up  at  any  time,  his  rooms  were  not 
cleaned,  his  silver  was  tarnished.  All  he  had  to  do  was 
to  complain  to  Mr.  ISTix,  who  ruled  Hortons  with  a  rod 
of  iron,  and  allowed  no  incivilities  or  slackness.  But 
he  was  afraid  to  do  that ;  he  was  afraid  of  the  way  that 
Bacon  would  treat  him  afterwards.  Always,  every- 
where now  he  saw  this  increasing  attention  that  was 
paid  to  the  lower  classes.  Eailwaymen,  miners,  hair- 
dressers, dockers,  bakers,  waiters,  they  struck,  got  what 
they  wanted  and  then  struck  for  more. 

He  hated  the  lower  classes — hated  them,  hated  them ! 
The  very  sight  of  a  working  man  threw  him  into  a 
frenzy.  Wliat  about  the  upper  classes  and  the  middle 
classes!  Did  you  ever  see  a  word  in  the  paper  about 
them  ?     Never ! 


ABSALOM  JAY  31 

He  was  not  well,  Lis  heart  troubled  him  very  much. 
Sometimes  be  lay  on  bis  sofa  battling  for  breatb.  But 
be  did  not  dai'e  to  go  to  a  doctor.  He  could  not  afford 
a  doctor. 

But  God  is  merciful.  He  put  a  period  to  poor 
Absalonj's  unbappiness.  Wben  it  was  plain  tbat  tbis 
world  was  no  longer  a  place  for  Absalom's  kind  He 
gathered  Absalom  to  His  bosom. 

And  it  was  in  tbis  way.  There  arrived  suddenly 
one  day  a  card:  "The  Duchess  of  Aisles  .  .  .  Dan- 
cing." His  heart  beat  high  at  the  sight  of  it.  He  had 
to  lie  down  on  bis  sofa  to  recover  himself.  He  stuck 
bis  card  into  the  mirror  and  was  compelled  to  6ay 
something  to  Bacon  about  it.  Bacon  did  not  seem  to 
be  greatly  impressed  at  the  sight. 

He  dressed  on  the  great  evening  with  the  utmost 
care.  The  sight  of  bis  bathroom  affected  him;  it 
seemed  to  cover  him  with  pink  spots  and  mildew,  but 
he  shook  that  off  from  him  and  boldly  ventured  forth 
to  Knigbtsbridge.  He  found  an  immense  party  gath- 
ered there.  Many,  many  people.  .  .  .  He  didn't  seem 
to  recognise  any  of  them.  The  Duciiess  herself  bad 
apparently  forgotten  him.  He  reminded  her.  He 
crept  about ;  he  felt  strangely  as  though  at  any  moment 
someone  might  shoot  him  in  the  back.  Then  he  found 
Mrs.  Charles  Clinton,  one  of  his  hostesses  of  the  old 
days.  She  was  kind  but  preoccupied.  Then  he  dis- 
covered Tom  Wardour — old  Tom  Wardour,  the  stupid- 
est man  in  London  and  the  greediest  JSTevertbeless  be 
was  glad  to  see  him. 


32  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

''By  Jove,  old  man,  you  do  look  seedy,"  Tom  said; 
''what  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?" 

Tactless  of  Tom,  that !  He  felt  more  than  ever  that 
someone  was  going  to  shoot  him  in  the  back.  He  crept 
away  and  hid  himself  in  a  corner.  He  dozed  a  little, 
then  woke  to  hear  his  own  name.  A  woman  was  speak- 
ing of  him.     He  recognized  Mrs.  Clinton's  voice. 

"Whom  do  you  think  I  saw  just  now  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  old 
Absalom  Jay.  Like  a  visit  from  the  dead.  Yes,  and 
so  old.  You  know  how  smart  he  used  to  be.  He  looked 
quite  shabby,  poor  old  thing.  Oh  no,  of  course,  he  was 
always  stupid.  But  now — oh,  dreadful !  .  .  .  I  assure 
you  ho  gave  me  the  creeps-  Yes,  of  course,  he  belonged 
to  that  old  world  before  the  war.  Doesn't  it  seem  a 
long  time  ago  ?  Centuries.  What  I  say  is  that  one  can't 
believe  one  was  alive  then  at  alL  .  .  ." 

Gave  her  the  creeps !  Gave  Mrs.  Clinton  the  creeps ! 
He  felt  as  though  his  premonition  had  been  true,  and 
someone  had  shot  him  in  the  back.  He  crept  away,  out 
of  the  house,  right  away. 

He  crept  into  a  Tube.  The  trains  were  crowded. 
He  had  to  .hang  on  to  a  strap.  At  Hyde  Park  Corner 
two  workmen  got  in;  they  had  been  drinking  together. 
Yery  big  men  they  were.  They  stood  one  on  each  side 
of  Absalom  and  lurched  about.  Absalom  was  pushed 
hither  and  thither. 

"Where  the  'ell  are  you  comin'  to?"  one  said. 

The  other  knocked.Absalom's  hat  off  as  though  by  an 
accident.  Then  the  former  elaborately  picked  it  up 
and  offered  it  with  a  low  bow,  digging  Absalom  in 
the  stomach  as  he  did  so. 


ABSALOM  JAY  3 


o 


"  'Ere  y'are,  my  lord,"  he  said.  They  roared  with 
laughter.  The  whole  carriage  laughed.  At  Dover 
Street  Absalom  got  out.  He  hurried  through  the 
streets,  and  the  tears  were  pouring  down  his  cheeks. 
He  could  not  stop  them ;  he  seemed  to  have  no  control 
over  them.  They  were  not  his  tears.  .  .  .  He  entered 
Hbrtons,  and  in  the  lift  hid  his  face  so  that  Fannie 
should  not  see  that  he  was  crying. 

He  closed  his  door  behind  him,  did  not  turn  on  the 
lights,  found  the  sofa,  and  cowered  down  there  as  though 
he  were  hiding  from  someone. 

The  tears  continued  to  race  down  his  cheeks.  Then 
suddenly  it  seemed  as  though  the  walls  of  the  bathroom, 
all  blotched  and  purple,  all  stained  with  creeping  mil- 
dew, closed  in  the  dark  about  him. 

He  heard  a  voice  cry — a  working-man's  voice — he  did 

not  hear  the  words,  but  the  walls  towered  above  him 

and  the  white  mildew  expanded  into  jeering,  hideous, 

triumphant  faces. 

His  heart  leapt  and  he  knew  no  more. 

****** 

Bacon  and  the  maid  found  him  huddled  thus  on  the 
floor  dead  next  morning. 

"Well  now,"  said  Bacon,  "that's  a  lucky  thing. 
Young  Somerset  next  door's  been  wanting  this  flat. 
Make  a  nice  suite  if  he  knocks  a  door  through — gives 
him  seven  rooms.     He'll  be  properly  pleased." 


n 

FA:Niinr  close 

SINCE  the  second  year  of  tlie  war  Fanny  Close  had 
been  portress  at  Hortons.  It  had  demanded  very 
much  resolution  on  the  part  of  Mr.  'Nix  to  search  for 
a  portress.  Since  time  immemorial  the  halls  of  Hortons 
had  known  only  porters.  George,  the  present  fine  speci- 
men, had  been  magnificently  in  service  there  for  the  last 
ten  years.  However,  Mr.  Nix  was  a  patriot;  he  sent 
his  son  aged  nineteen  to  the  war  (his  son  was  only  too 
delighted  to  go),  himself  joined  the  London  Air 
Defences,  and  then  packed  off  every  man  and  boy  in 
the  place. 

The  magnificent  James  was  the  last  to  go.  He  had, 
he  said,  an  ancient  mother  dependent  upon  him.  Mr. 
Nix  was  disappointed  in  him.  He  did  not  live  up  to  his 
chest  measurement.  "You're  very  nearly  a  shirker," 
he  said  to  him  indignantly.  ^Nevertheless  he  promise-d 
to  keep  his  place  open  for  him.  .  .  . 

He  had  to  go  out  into  the  highways  and  by-ways  and 

find  women.    The  right  ones  were  not  easily  found,  and 

often  enough  they  were  disappointing.     Mr.  ISTix  was 

a   tremendous  disciplinarian,   that  was  why  Hortons 

were  the  best  service  flats  in  the  whole  of  the  West  End. 

But  he  discovered,  as  many  a  man  had  discovered  before^ 

him,  that  the  discipline  that  does  for  a  man  will  not/ 

34 


fan:ny  close  35 

do  nine  times  out  of  ten  for  a  woman.     "Woman  has  a  j 
way  of  wriggling  out  of  tlie  net  of  discipline  with  subtle-  ( 
ties  unknown  to  man. 

So  Mr.  Nix  discovered.  .  .  .  Only  with  Fanny  Close 
Mr.  !N"ix  had  no  trouble  at  all.  She  became  at  the  end 
of  the  -first  week  a  ''jewel/'  and  a  jewel  to  the  end  of 
her  time  she  remained. 

I  don't  wish,  in  these  days  of  stern  and  unrelenting 
realism,  to  draw  Dickensian  pictures  of  youth  and 
purity,  but  the  plain  truth  is  that  Fanny  Close  was  as 
good  a  girl  as  ever  was  made.  She  was  good  for  two 
reasons,  one  because  she  was  plain,  the  other  because 
she  had  a  tiresome  sister.  The  first  of  these  reasons 
made  her  humble,  the  other  made  her  enjoy  everything 
from  which  her  sister  was  absent  twice  as  much  as  any- 
one else  would  have  enjoyed  it. 

She  was  twenty-five  years  of  age;  the  mother  had 
died  of  pleurisy  when  the  children  were  babies,  and 
the  father,  who  was  something  very  unimportant  in  a 
post  office,  had  struggled  for  twenty  years  to  keep  them 
all  alive,  and  then  caught  a  cold  and  died.  The  only 
brother  had  married,  and  Aggie  and  Fanny  had 
remained  to  keep  house  together.  Aggie  had  always 
been  the  beauty  of  the  family,  but  it  had  been  a  beauty 
without  "chai-m,"  so  that  many  young  men  had 
advanced  with  beating  hearts,  gazed  with  eager  eyes, 
and  then  walked  away,  relieved  that  for  some  reason  or 
another  they  had  been  saved  from  "putting  the  ques- 
tion." She  had  had  proposals,  of  course,  but  they  had 
never  been  good  enough.  At  twenty-six  she  was  a 
disappointed  virgin. 


36  THE  THIRTEE:N"  TRAVELLEES 

Eanny  had  always  been  so  ready  to  consider  herself 
the  plainer  and  stupider  of  the  two  that  it  had  not  been 
altogether  Aggie's  fault  that  she,  Aggie,  should  take, 
so  naturally,  the  first  place.     Many  a  relation  had  told 
Fanny  that  she  was  too  "submissive"  and  didn't  stand 
up  for  herself  enough,  but  Fanny  shook  her  head  and 
said  that  she  couldn't  be  other  than  she  was.     The  tme 
fact  was  that  deep  down  in  her  heart  she  not  only 
admired  her  sister,  she  also  hated  her.    How  astonished 
Aggie  would  have  been  had  she  known  this — and  how\ 
{^astonished,  to  be  truly  platitudinous  for  a  moment,  we  \ 
should  all  be  if  we  really  knew  what  our  nearest  andy 
dearest  relatives  thought  of  us! 

Fanny  hated  Aggie,  but  had  quite  made  up  her  mind 
that  she  would  never  be  free  of  her.  How  could  she 
be  ?  She  herself  was  far  too  plain  for  anyone  to  want 
to  marry  her,  and  Aggie  was  apparently  settling  down 
inevitably  into  a  bitter  old-maidenhood.  Then  came 
the  war.  Fanny  was  most  unexpectedly  liberated. 
Aggie  did,  of  course,  try  to  prevent  her  escape,  but  on 
this  occasion  Fanny  was  resolved.  She  would  do  what 
she  could  to  help — the  country  needed  every  single 
woman.  At  first  she  washed  plates  in  a  canteen,  then 
she  ran  a  lift  outside  some  Insurance  office,  finally  she 
fell  into  Mr.  Nix's  arms,  and  there  she  stayed  for  three 
years. 

She  knew  from  the  very  first  that  she  would  like  it. 
She  liked  Mr.  JSTix,  she  liked  the  blue  uniform  provided 
for  her,  most  of  all  she  liked  the  "atmosphere"  of 
Hortons,  the  coloured  repose  of  St.  James's,  the  hall  of 
white  and  gi-een,  the  broad  staircase,  the  palms  in  the 


FAM^Y  CLOSE  37 

staircase  windows,  the  grandfattier's  clock  near  Mr. 
Nix's  office;  she  even  liked  her  own  little  rabbit-hutch 
where  were  the  little  boxes  for  the  letters,  the  cupboard 
for  her  own  private  possessions,  the  telephone,  and  a 
chair  for  her  to  sit  upon.  In  a  marvellously  short 
time  she-^was  the  mistress  of  the  whole  situation.  Mr. 
'Nix  could  not  have  believed  that  he  would  have  missed 
the  marvellous  James  so  little.  ''Really,"  he  said  to 
Mrs.  !N^ix,  "a.  great  discovery,  a  remarkable  find." 

"Well,  I  hope  she  won't  disappoint  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Nix,  who  was  an  amiable  pessimist.  Fanny  did  not 
disappoint;  she  got  better  and  better.  Everyone  liked 
her,  and  she  liked  everyone. 

Because  she  had  as  her  standard  Aggie's  grudging 
and  reluctant  personality,  she  naturally  found  everyone 
delightful.  She  was  very  happy  indeed  because  they 
all  wanted  her  assistance  in  one  way  or  another.  "Men 
are  helpless,"  was  her  happy  comment  after  a  year's 
experience  at  Hortons.  She  stamped  letters  for  one, 
delivered  telephone  messages  for  another,  found  ad- 
dresses for  a  third,  carried  bags  for  a  fourth,  acted  as 
confidential  adviser  for  a  fifth.  She  was  not  pretty, 
of  course,  but  she  was  much  less  plain  in  her  uniform 
than  she  had  been  in  her  private  dress.  The  blue, 
peaked  cap  suited  her,  and  managed  somehow,  in  com- 
bination with  her  pince-nez,  to  give  her  quite  a  roguish 
complexion. 

Nevertheless  she  was  looked  upon  as  a  serious  person 
— "quite  like  a  man,"  she  reflected  with  satisfaction. 
She  did  not  wish  to  waste  her  time  with  flirtations,  she 
\vanted  to  do  her  job  efficiently.     It  needed  great  self- 


38  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAYELLEES 

control  not  to  take  too  active  an  interest  in  the  affairs 
of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  lier  charge.  She  was, 
for  instance,  deeply  sorry  for  poor  old  Mr.  Jay,  who 
was  obviously  poor  and  helpless  and  had  no  friends. 
He  used  to  ask  her  whether  "So-and-so"  had  called, 
to  tell  her  that  he  was  expecting  Lady  This,  and  Lord 
That  to  ring  up.  Of  course,  they  never  did.  K'o  one 
ever  came  to  see  him.  Fanny's  heart  simply  ached  for 
him. 

Then  there  was  young  Mr.  Torby — the  Hon.  Olive 
Torby.  Fanny  thought  him  the  most  wonderful  figure 
in  London.  He  was  in  France  and  was  wounded,  went 
back  and  was  wounded  again,  this  time  losing  an  arm. 
He  had  the  D.S.O.  and  M.O.,  and  was  simply  the  most 
handsome  young  man  in  London — but  Fanny  feared 
that  he  was  leading  a  very  idle  life.  He  was  always 
happy,  always  good-tempered,  always  laughing,  but 
Fanny  shivered  at  the  thought  of  the  money  that  he 
spent.  Lord  Dronda,  his  father,  used  to  come  and  see 
him  and  "remonstrate  with  him,"  so  the  Hon.  Olive 
told  Fanny  after  the  interview.  But  what  was  the 
good?  All  the  young  ladies  came  just  the  same,  and 
the  flowers  and  the  fruit  and  the  wine 

''We  can  only  love  once,  Fanny,"  th'e  young  man 
declared  one  day.  "And  I've  been  so  near  kicking  the 
bucket  so  many  times  lately  that  I'm  going  to  make  the 
most  of  the  sunshine." 

How  could  you  blame  him?  At  any  rate,  Fanny 
couldn't. 

There  were  many  others  into  whose  histories  and 
personalities  this  is  neither  the  time  nor  place  to  enter. 


fa:n"ny  close  39 

Fanny  felt  as  thoiigli  she  were  living  at  the  very  heart 
of  the  gi-eat,  bustling,  eventful  world.  When  she  saw 
Edmund  Eobsart,  the  famous  novelist,  whose  flat  was 
'No.  20,  go  up  in  the  lift,  when  he  said  "Good-evening" 
to  her  and  smiled,  he  whose  pictui-e  was  quite  often  in 
the  daily  papers,  whose  books  were  on  the  railway  book- 
stalls, whose  name  was  even  mentioned  once  in  Fanny's 
hearing  by  T.  E.  Dunville  at  the  Victoria  Palace — well, 
there  was  something  to  be  proud  of.  True,  he  was  over 
fifty,  and  fat  and  a  little  pompous — what  did  that  mat- 
ter? Fanny  had  taken  messages  to  him  in  his  rooms 
and  seen  him  once  in  a  purple  silk  dressing-gown. 

She  did  not  consider  herself  overworked.  She  had 
to  be  on  duty  at  eight-thirty  every  morning,  and  she 
remained  until  six-thirty  in  the  evening.  She  had 
every  Saturday  afternoon  and  every  other  Sunday. 
She  did  every  kind  of  thing  in  between  those  hours. 
The  whole  warm  pulsing  life  of  the  twenty  chambers 
seemed  to  radiate  from  her.  She  fancied  herself  sit- 
ting there  in  her  little  office,  taking  the  messages  from 
the  flats  and  distributing  them  to  the  different  valets 
and  servants  in  the  kitchen,  watching  everyone  who 
came  in  and  out,  detecting  suspicious  people  who 
wanted  to  see  "So-and-so  on  very  urgent  business," 
attending  to  Mr.  Nix  when  he  had  anything  to  say  or 
wanted  anything  .  .  .  and  sometimes  in  the  hot  sum- 
mer weather  she  would  sit  and  look  out  upon  the  white 
and  shining  street,  feeling  the  heat  play  in  little  gleam- 
ing waves  upon  the  green  staircase  behind  her,  hearing 
the  newsboys  shout  their  war-news,  watching  stout  Mr. 
E'ewbury,  of  the  picture^shop,  as  he  stood  in  his  door- 


40  THE  THIRTEEN  TEAVELLERS 

way  and  speculated  on  tlie  weather.  How  cool  here,  and 
how  hot  out  there! — and  in  the  winter  how  warm  the 
flats  and  how  cold  the  dusky  blue-green  street! 

She  sometimes  wondered  whether  it  were  not  wicked 
of  her  to  care  for  her  life  at  Hortons  so  much  when  it 
all  came  to  her  from  the  horrible  war,  which  did  indeed 
seem  to  her  the  most  dreadful  thing  that  had  ever 
happened. 

She  had  not  known  many  young  men,  but  there  had 
been  ]\Ir.  Simmons  and  Mr.  Frank  Blake  and  his 
brother  Tom  Blake — nice  young  men,  and  most  amus- 
ing in  the  evening  after  supper  or  on  an  evening  out  at 
the  Music  Hall— all  gone.  .  .  .  Tom  Blake  dead, 
Erank  Blake  without  a  leg,  Mr.  Simmons  gassed.  .  .  . 
Oh,  she  Imted  this  war,  she  hated  it — but  she  loved 
Hortons. 

The  fly  in  the  ointment  was  the  old  familiar  fly  of 
family  comment.  The  war  had  not  had  a  good  effect 
upon  Aggie.  She  sat  at  home  and  grew  more  and  more 
pessimistic.  There  never  was  such  pessimism.  Ger- 
many was  to  Aggie  a  triumphing,  dominating  force  that 
nothing  could  stop.  "^Vliat's  the  use  of  our  fighting  ?" 
she  would  say  when  Eanny  would  arrive  home  to  sup- 
per, exhausted  but  cheerful.  "What's  the  use  P  That's 
what  I  want  to  know.  Here  we  are  at  their  mercy — can 
step  over  any  time  they  like  and  just  take  us." 

i^Tothing  made  Fanny  so  angry  as  this.  It  was  all 
she  could  do  to  control  herself;  nevertheless,  control 
herself  she  did. 

"What  about  our  Army  ?"  she  would  say.     "And  the 


FAi^NY  CLOSE  41 

submarines?  What  about  Kitchener?"  and  later, 
"What  about  Haig?" 

"Haig!"  sniffed  Aggie.  "Haig!"  The  air-raids 
finished  Aggie.  A  bomb  was  dropped  quite  close  to 
their  upper-part  in  Bloomsbury.  Aggie  was  ill  for 
weeks — she  recovered,  but  rose  from  her  bed  a  soured, 
injured,  vindictive  woman.  It  was  exactly  as  though 
the  whole  of  the  war,  and  especially  the  bomb-dropping 
part  of  it,  had  been  arranged  simply  for  the  annoyance 
of  Aggie  Close.  She  always  said  that  she  hated  the 
Germans,  but  to  hear  her  talk  you'd  think  that  she 
hated  the  English  a  gTeat  deal  more.  Our  incomper 
tence,  our  cowardice,  our  selfishness,  our  wickedness  in 
high  places — such  were  her  eternal  topics.  Fanny,  sit- 
ting in  her  hutch  at  Hortons,  saw  the  evening  waiting 
for  her — the  horrible  evening  with  their  little  stuffy, 
food-smelling,  overcrowded  room,  with  the  glazed  and 
grinning  sideboard,  the  pink-and-white  wool  mats,  the 
heavy  lace  curtains  over  the  window,  the  hideous  oleo- 
graphs, the  large,  staring  photogTaphs.  Unlike  most  of 
her  kind  she  knew  that  all  this  was  ugly,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  ugliness  was  Aggie,  Aggie  with  her  square, 
short,  thick-set  figure,  her  huge  flat  feet,  her  heavy, 
freckled  hands.  She  would  have  escaped  to  a  place  of 
entertainment  had  there  been  anybody  to  take  her — 
just  now  there  was  nobody.  She  could  not  walk  about 
the  streets  alone. 

At  first  she  had  tried  to  interest  Aggie  in  the  exciting 
events  of  her  day,  in  poor  Mr.  Jay,  and  magnificent 
Mr.  Robsart,  and  funny,  fussing  Mrs.  Demaris,  and  the 
Hon.  Clive.    But  Aggie  had  a  marvellous  way  of  turn- 


42  THE  THIRTEEIT  TRAVELLERS 

ing  everything,  however  cheerful  and  bright  it  might 
seem,  into  sin  and  sorrow  and  decay.  If  Fanny  was 
happy,  it  was:  "How  can  you  laugh  when  the  world's 
in  the  state  it's  in?"  If  Fanny  sighed,  it  was:  "I 
should  have  thought  it  was  one's  duty  to  be  as  cheerful 
as  possible  just  now.  But  some  people  think  only  of 
themselves." 

If  Fanny  argued  against  some  too  outrageous  piece 
of  pessimism,  it  was:  "Really,  Fanny,  it's  such  as 
you  is  losing  us  the  war." 

"Oh!  I  hate  Aggie! — I  hate  Aggie!"  Fanny  would 
sometimes  cry  to  herself  in  the  heart  of  her  hutch,  b.ut 
she  could  not  summon  to  herself  sufficient  resolution  to 
go  off  and  live  by  herself;  she  had  a  terror  of  solitary 
evenings,  all  the  terror  of  one  who  did  not  care  for 
books,  who  was  soaked  in  superstition  and  loved  lights 
and  noisa 

During  the  first  two  years  of  the  war  she  did  not 
consider  the  end  of  the  war.  She  never  doubted  for  a 
single  moment  but  that  the  Allies  would  win,  and  for 
the  rest  she  had  too  much  work  to  do  to  waste  time  in 
idle  speculations.  But  in  the  third  year  that  little 
phrase  "after  the  war"  began  to  drive  itself  in  upon 
her.  Everyone  said  it.  She  perceived  that  people  were 
bearing  their  trials  and  misfortunes  and  losses  because 
"after  the  war"  everything  would  be  all  right  again — 
there  would  be  plenty  of  food  and  money  and  rest 
"after  the  war." 

Her  heart  began  to  ache  for  all  the  troubles  that  she 
saw  around  her.  Mr.  Nix  lost  his  boy  in  France  and 
was  a  changed  man.    For  a  month  or  two  it  seemed  as 


FAirar  CLOSE  43 

though  he  would  lose  all  interest  in  Hortons.  He  was 
listless  and  indifferent  and  suffered  slackness  to  go 
unpunished.  Then  he  pulled  himself  together.  Hortons 
was  its  old  seK  again — and  how  Fanny  admired  him 
for  that! 

Then  oame  the  Armistice,  and  the  world  changed  for 
Fanny.  It  changed  because,  in  a  sudden  devastating 
horrible  flash  of  revelation,  she  realised  that  the  women 
would  all  have  to  go !  The  men  would  come  back.  .  .  . 
And  she? 

That  night  when  she  perceived  this  gave  her  one  of 
her  worst  hours.  She  had  allowed  herself — and  she  saw 
now  how  foolish  she  had  been  to  do  so — to  look  upon 
the  work  at  Hortons  as  the  permanent  occupation  of 
her  life.  How  could  she  have  done  otherwise?  It 
suited  her  so  exactly;  she  loved  it,  and  everybody 
encouraged  her  to  believe  that  she  did  it  well.  Had 
not  Mr.  ]^ix  himself  told  her  that  he  could  not  have 
believed  that  he  could  miss  the  magnificent  James  so 
little,  and  that  no  man  could  have  filled  the  blank  as 
she  had  done  ?  Moreover,  in  the  third  year  of  the  war 
James  had  been  killed,  and  it  would  take  a  new  man 
a  long  time  to  leam  all  the  ins-and-outs  of  the  business 
as  she  had  learnt  them.  So  she  hfid  encouraged  herself 
to  dream,  and  the  dream  and  the  business  had  become 
one — she  could  not  tear  them  apart.  "Well,  now  she 
must  tear  them  apai't  Mr.  Nix  was  dismissing  all  the 
women. 

"With  teeth  set  she  faced  her  future.  !N^o  use  to  think 
of  getting  another  job — ever_ywhere  the  men  were 
returning.    For  such  work  as  she  could  do  there  would 


44  THE  THIRTEE:N"  TRAVELLERS 

be  a  hundred  men  waiting  for  every  vacancy.  !N'o,  she 
would  have  to  live  always  with  Aggie.  They  would 
have  enough  to  live  on — just  enough.  Their  brother 
allowed  them  something,  and  an  aunt  had  left  them  a 
little  legacy.  Just  enough  with  a  perpetual  sparing 
and  scraping — no  more  of  the  little  luxuries  that 
Fanny's  pay  from  Hortons  had  allowed  them.  Certainly 
not  enough  for  either  of  them  to  live  alone.  Tied  for 
ever  together,  that's  what  they  would  be — chained. !  and 
Aggie  growing  ever  more  and  more  bitter. 

ISTevertheless  she  faced  it.  She  went  back  to  Hortons 
with  a  smile  and  a  laugh.  Her  gentlemen  and  ladies 
did  not  know  that  she  was  looking  upon  them  with  eyes 
of  farewell.  Miss  Lois  Drake,  for  instance,  that  daring 
and  adventurous  type  of  the  modern  girl  about  whose 
future  Fanny  was  always  speculating  with  trembling 
excitement,  she  did  not  notice  anything  at  all.  But 
then  she  thought  of  very  little  save  herself.  "However 
she  can  do  the  things  she  does !"  was  Fanny's  awed 
comment — and  now,  alas,  she  would  never  see  the  cli- 
max to  her  daring — never,  never,  never ! 

She  said  nothing  to  Aggie  of  her  troubles,  and  Aggie 
said  nothing  to  her.  The  days  passed.  Then  just 
before  Christmas  came  the  marvellous  news. 

By  this  time  all  the  girl  valets  had  been  dismissed 
and  men  had  taken  their  places.  They  would  congre- 
gate in  the  hall  of  a  morning,  coming  on  approval,  and 
Fanny  would  speculate  about  them.  Mr.  Nix  even 
asked  her  advice.  "I  like  that  one,"  she  would  say; 
"I  wouldn't  trust  that  man  a  yard,"  she  would  decide. 
Then  one  day  Albert  Edward  came.     There  was  no 


FA^ra^Y  CLOSE  45 

doubt  about  him  at  all.  He  was  almost  as  good  as  the 
late  lamented  James.  Handsome,  although  short — but 
Fanny  liked  the  ^'stocky"  kind,  and  with  such  a  laugh ! 
Fanny  delighted  in  his  jet  black  hair  cut  tight  about 
his  head,  his  smiling  black  eyes,  his  round,  rosy  cheeks. 
She  admired  him  quite  in  the  abstract.  He  was  far  too 
grand  for  any  personal  feeling.  ...  At  once,  when  he 
had  been  in  the  place  two  days,  she  allotted  him  to  Mrs. 
Mellish's  maid,  Annette,  such  a  handsome  girl,  so  bold 
and  clever !     They  were  made  for  one  another. 

Albert  Edward  was  valet  on  the  second  floor;  he 
shared  that  floor  vsdth  Bacon.  Fanny  did  not  like 
Bacon,  the  one  mistake  she  thought  that  Mr.  !N"ix  had 
made. 

Well,  just  before  Christmas  the  wonderful  hour 
arrived. 

"Fanny,"  said  Mr.  IsTix  one  evening.  "Do  you 
realise  that  you're  the  only  woman  left  in  a  man's  job  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Fanny,  her  heart  beating  horribly. 

''Well,"  said  Mr.  'Nix,  "you're  going  to  continue  to 
be  the  only  woman  unless  you've  any  objection." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Nix,"  said  Fanny,  "I'm  sure  I've  always 
tried " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Nix,  "that's  why  I  want 
you  to  stay — for  ever  if  you  like — or  at  any  rate  so  long 
as  I'm  here." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Nix,"  said  Fanny  again.  Tears  were  in 
her  eyes ;  the  familiar  gTcen  staircase,  the  palm  and  the 
grandfather's  clock  swam  before  her  eyes. 

It  was  Aggie,  of  course,  who  killed  her  happiness 
almost  as  soon  as  it  was  born. 


46  THE  THIRTEEIT  TRAVELLERS 

"And  what  about  the  demobilised  men  ?"  Aggie  had 
asked  with  her  cold,  acid  smile.  "I  should  have  thought 
that  if  there  were  any  jobs  going  a  patriotic  girl  like 
you  would  have  be^n  the  first  to  stand  aside." 

Fanny's  heai't  seemed  to  leap  into  the  air  and  then 
fall — stone  dead  at  her  feet.  Men !  Demobilised  men ! 
She  had  not  thought  of  that.  But  for  the  moment  the 
only  thing  she  could  see  was  Aggie's  spite — her  old, 
eternal  spite.  .  .  .  She  felt  the  tears  rising.  In  a 
moment  they  would  break  out. 

"You  would  like  to  spoil  it  if  you  could!"  she  cried. 
"Yes,  you  would.  It's  what  you've  always  done — spoilt 
everything.  Yes,  you  have — since  we  were  children. 
Any  little  bit  of  happiness.  .  .  ." 
,  "Happiness!"  interrupted  Aggie;  "that's  what  you 
call  it  ?  Selfishness !  cruel  selfishness,  that's  what  some 
would  name  it." 

"You  don't  care,"  cried  Eanny,  her  words  now 
choked  with  sobs.  "You  don't  care  as  long  as  I'm  hurt 
and  wounded — that's  all  you  mind !  .  .  .  always  .  .  . 
tried  to  hurt  me  .  .  .  always!"  The  tears  had  con- 
quered her.     She  rushed  from  the  room. 

She  escaped — ^but  she  was  haunted.  It  was  not  be- 
cause Aggie  had  said  it  that  she  minded — no,  she  did 
not  care  for  Aggie — it  was  because  there  was  truth  in 
what  Aggie  had  said.  Eanny  was  precisely  the  girl  to 
feel  such  a  charge,  as  Aggie  well  knew.  All  her  life 
her  conscience  had  been  her  trouble,  acute,  vivid,  lifting 
its  voice  when  there  was  no  need,  never  satisfied  with 
the   prizes  and   splendours   thrown   it.     In   ordinary 


FAimY  CLOSE  47 

times  Fanny  snrreoidered  at  once  to  its  hideous  demands 
— this  time  she  fought. 

Aggie  herself  helped  in  the  fight.  Having  succeeded 
in  making  Faxiny  miserable,  it  was  by  no  means  her 
intention  that  the  silly  child  should  really  surrender 
the  job.  That  did  not  at  all  suit  her  own  idle  selfish- 
ness. So  she  mocked  at  her  for  staying  where  she  was, 
but  made  it  plain  that  having  given  her  word,  she  must 
stick  to  it  "You've  made  your  bed  and  must  lie  on  it," 
was  her  phrase. 

Fanny  said  nothing.  The  light  had  gone  from  her 
eyes,  the  colour  from  her  cheeks.  She  was  fighting  the 
sternest  battle  of  her  life.  Everywhere  she  saw,  or 
fancied  she  saw,  demobilised  men.  Every  man  in  the 
street  with  a  little  shining  disc  fastened  to  his  coat  was 
in  her  eyes  a  demobilised  man  starving  and  hungiy 
because  she  was  so  wicked.  And  yet  why  should  she 
give  it  up?  She  had  proved  her  worth — shown  that 
she  was  better  than  a  man  in  that  particular  business. 
Would  Mr.  Nix  have  kept  her  had  she  not  been  better  ? 
Kind  though  he  was,  he  was  not  a  philanthropist  .  .  . 
And  to  give  it  up,  to  be  tied  for  life  to  Aggie,  to  be  idle, 
to  be  unwanted,  to  see  no  more  of  Hortons,  to  see  no 
more — of  Albert  Edward.  Yes,  the  secret  was  out 
She  loved  Albert  Edward.  IsTot  with  any  thought  of 
herself — dear  me,  no.  .  .  .  She  knew  that  she  was  far 
too  plain,  too  dull.  She  need  only  compare  herself  for 
an  instant  with  Mrs.  Mellish's  Annette,  and  she  could 
see  where  she  stood.  Xo,  romance  was  not  for  her. 
But  she  liked  his  company.     He  was  so  kind  to  her. 


48  THE  THIETEE:N'  TEAVELLEES 

He  would  stand,  again  and  again,  in  lier  little  hutcli 
and  chatter,  laughing  and  making  silly  jokes. 

She  amused  him,  and  he  admired  her  capacity  for 
business.  ''You  are  a  one!"  was  his  way  of  putting  it. 
''You'd  be  something  like  running  a  restaurant — busi- 
ness side,  you  know." 

How  proud  she  was  when  he  said  these  things !  After 
all,  everybody  had  something.  Annette,  for  all  her  bows 
and  ribbons,  was  probably  poor  at  business. 

However,  she  included  Albert  Edward  in  the  general 
life  of  Hortons,  and  refused  to  look  any  closer.  So 
day  and  night  the  struggle  continued.  She  could  not 
sleep,  she  could  not  eat,  evei-yone  told  her  that  she 
was  looking  ill  and  needed  a  holiday.  She  was  most 
truly  a  haunted  woman,  and  her  ghosts  were  on  every 
side  of  her,  pressing  in  upon  her,  reproaching  her  with 
starving,  dark-rimmed  eyes.  She  straggled,  she  fought, 
she  clung  with  bleeding  hands  to  the  stones  and  rafters 
and  walls  of  Hortons. 

Conscience  had  her  way — Fanny  was  beaten.  The 
decision  was  taken  one  night  after  a  hoi*rible  dream — a 
di'eam  in  which  she  had  been  pursued  by  a  menacing, 
sinister  procession  of  men,  some  without  arms  and  legs, 
who  floated  about  her,  beating  her  in  the  face  with  their 
soft  boneless  hands.  .  .  . 

She  awoke  screaming.  ]^ext  morning  she  went  to 
Mr.  Mx. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  ^ve  you  my  notice,  Mr.  N^ix," 
she  said. 

Of  course  he  laughed  at  her  when  she  offered  her 
reason.    But  she  was  fii-m. 


FANNY  CLOSE  49 

''You've  been  terribly  good  to  me,  Mr.  jSTix,"  she 
said,  "but  I  must  go." 

She  was  firm.  It  was  all  that  slie  could  do  not  to 
cry.  He  submitted,  saying  that  he  would  leave  ber  a 
day  or  so  to  reconsider  it. 

She  went  into  her  hut  and  stared  in  front  of  her,  in 
stony  wretchedness.  That  was  the  worst  day  of  her 
life.  She  felt  like  a  dead  woman.  Worst  of  all  was 
the  temptation  to  run  back  to  Mr.  Nix  and  tell  him 
that  it  was  not  true,  that  she  had  reconsidered  it.  .  .  . 

All  day  she  saw  Aggie  in  her  green  stuff  dress,  her 
eyes  close  to  the  paper,  the  room  so  close,  so  close.  .  .  . 

In  the  afternoon,  about  five,  she  felt  that  she  could 
bear  it  no  longer. 

She  would  get  the  hall-boy  to  take  her  place  and 
would  go  home. 

Albert  Edward  came  in  for  a  chat.  She  told  him 
what  she  had  done. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "that's  fine." 

She  stared  at  him. 

"I  want  you  to  marry  me,"  he  said ;  "I've  been  want- 
ing it  a  long  time.  I  like  you.  You're  just  the  com- 
panion for  me,  sense  of  humour  and  all  that.  And  a 
business  head.  I'm  past  the  sentimental  stuff.  What 
I  want  is  a  pal.  What  do  you  say  to  the  little  restau- 
rant?" 

The  grandfather's  clock  rose  up  and  struck  Eanny 
in  the  face.  She  could  have  endured  that  had  not  the 
green  and  white  staircase  done  the  same.  So  strange 
was  the  world  that  she  was  compelled  to  put  her  hand 
on  Albert  Edward's  arm. 


50         THE  THIRTEEIT  TRAVELLERS 

Beliind  the  swimming,  dazzling  splendour  of  her 
happiness  was  the  knowledge  that  she  had  secured  a 
job  from  which  no  man  in  the  world  would  have  the 
right  to  oust  her. 


in 

,.      THE  HOK  CLIVE  TOEBY 

HE  was  now  tlie  only  son  of  old  Lord  Dronda ;  his 
elder  brother  had  been  killed  at  Mons  early  in 
the  war.  He  had  been  aware  of  his  good  looks  ever 
since  he  was  a  week  old.  Tom,  the  elder  brother,  had 
been  fat  and  plain ;  everyone  had  told  him  so.  He  did 
not  mind  now,  being  dead.  Clive  was  the  happiest 
fellow  possible,  even  though  he  had  lost  an  arm  late  in 
'17.  He  had  not  minded  that.  It  was  his  left  arm,  and 
he  could  already  do  almost  everything  quite  well  with- 
out it;  women  liked  him  all  the  better  for  having  lost 
it.  He  had  always  been  perfectly  satisfied  with  him- 
self, his  looks,  his  home,  his  relations — everything.  His 
critics  said  that  he  was  completely  selfish,  and  had  hor- 
rible manners  or  no  manners  at  all,  but  it  was  difficult 
to  underline  his  happy  unconscious  young  innocence  so 
heavily.  Certainly  if,  in  the  days  before  the  war,  you 
stayed  with  his  people,  you  found  his  indifference  to 
your  personal  needs  rather  galling — but  "Tom  looked 
after  all  that,"  although  Tom  often  did  not  because  he 
was  absent-minded  by  nature  and  fond  of  fishing.  The 
fact  is  that  poor  Lady  Dronda  was  to  blame.  She  had 
educated  her  children  very  badly,  being  so  fond  of 
them  and  so  proud  of  them  that  she  gave  in  to  them  on 
every  opportunity.    She  was  known  amongst  her  friends 

51 


52  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

as  "Poor  Lady  Droncia"  because,  being  a  sentimentalist 
and  rather  stupid,  life  was  perpetually  disappointing 
her.     People  never  came  up  to  her  expectations,  so  she 
put  all  her  future  into  the  hands  of  her  sons,  who,  it 
seemed,   might  in   the  end   also  prove  disappointing. 
The  favourite  word  on  her  lips  was,  "JSTow  tell  me  the 
truth.     The  one  thing  I  want  to  hear  from  my  friends   y 
is  the  truth."     However,  the  truth  was  exactly  what    ] 
she  never  did  get,  because  it  upset  her  so  seriously  and    l 
made  her  so  angry  with  the  person  who  gave  it  her.    / 
Tom  being  dead,  she  transformed  him  into  an  angel,  and   1 
told  s}T2ipathetic  acquaint^mces  so  often  that  she  never 
spoke  of  him  that  his  name  was  rarely  off  her  lips. 
^Nevertheless  she  was  able  to  devote  a  gTcat  deal  of 
her  time  to  Clive,  who  was  now  ''All  Her  Life." 

The   results   of   this    were   two :    first,    that   Clive,  \ 
although  retaining  all  his  original  simple  charm,  was  / 
more  sure  than  ever  before  that  he  was  perfect;  sec- 
ondly, that  he  found  his  mother  tiresome  and,  having  ) 
been  brought  up  to  think  of  nobody  but  himself,  was 
naturally  as  little  at  home  as  possibla 

He  took  up  his  abode  at  Hortons,  finding  a  little  flat, 
ISTo.  11,  on  the  second  floor,  that  suited  him  exactly. 
Into  it  he  put  his  "few  sticks  of  things,"  and  the  result 
was  a  charming  confusion  of  soda-water  syphons  and 
silver  photograph  frames. 

He  very  happily  throughout  the  whole  of  1918 
resided  there,  receiving  innumerable  young  women  to 
meals  of  different  kinds,  throwing  the  rooms  open  to 
all  his  male  acquaintances,  and  generally  turning  night 
into  day — with  the  caution  that  he  must  not  annoy 


THE  HON.  CLIVE  TORBY  53 

Mr.  Nix,  the  manager,  for  whom  he  had  the  very  great- 
est respect.  The  odd  thing  was  that  with  all  his  conceit 
and  bad  manners,  he  was  something  of  a  hero.  He  had 
received  both  the  M.C.  and  the  D.S.O.,  and  was  as  good 
an  officer  as  the  Guards  could  boast.  This  sounds  con- 
ventional and  in  the  good  old  Ouida  tradition,  but  his 
heroism  lay  rather  in  the  fact  that  he  had  positively 
loathed  the  war.  He  hated  the  dirt,  the  blood,  the  con- 
fusion, the  losing  of  friends,  what  he  called  "the  gen- 
eral Hell."  'No  one  was  more  amusing  and  amiable 
during  his  stay  out  there,  and,  to  be  Ouidaesque  again 
for  a  moment,  he  was  adored  by  his  men. 

Nevertheless  it  was  perhaps  the  happiest  moment  of 
his  life  when  he  knew  he  was  to  lose  his  arm.  "No 
more  going  back  to  jolly  old  France  for  me,  old  bean," 
he  wrote  to  a  friend.  "Now  I'm  going  to  enjoy 
myself." 

That  was  his  rooted  determination.  He  had  not 
gone  through  all  that  and  been  maimed  for  life  for 
nothing.  He  was  going  to  enjoy  himself.  Yes,  after 
the  war  he  would  show  them.  .  .  . 

He  showed  them  mainly  at  present  by  dancing  all 
hours  of  the  day  and  night.  He  had  danced  before  the 
war  like  any  other  human  being,  and  had  faithfully 
attended  at  Murray's  and  the  Four  Hundred  and  the 
other  places.  But  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  very 
gi-eatly  enjoyed  it;  he  had  gone  in  the  main  because 
Miss  Poppy  Darling,  who  had  just  then  caught  his 
attention,  commanded  him  to  do  so.  Now  it  was  quite 
another  matter — he  went  simply  for  the  dance  itself. 
He  was  not  by  nature  a  very  introspective  young  man, 


54  THE  THIETEEE"  TEAVELLEES 

and  lie  did  not  tliink  of  himself  as  strange  or  odd  or 
indeed  as  anything  definite  at  all;  but  it  was  perhaps 
a  little  strange  that  he,  who  had  been  so  carefully 
brought  up  by  his  fond  mother,  should  surrender  to  a 
passion  for  tom-toms  and  tin  kettles  more  completely 
than  he  had  ever  surrendered  to  any  woman.  He  did 
not  care  with  whom  it  was  that  he  danced ;  a  man  would 
have  done  as  well.  The  point  was  that,  when  those 
harsh  and  jarring  noises  began  to  beat  and  battle 
through  the  air,  his  body  should  move  and  gyrate  in 
sympathy  just  as  at  that  very  moment  perhaps,  some- 
where in  Central  Africa,  a  grim  and  glistening  savage 
was  turning  monotonously  beneath  the  glories  of  a  full 
moon.  He  danced  all  night  and  most  of  the  day,  with 
the  result  that  he  had  very  little  time  for  anything  else. 
Lady  Dronda  complained  that  he  never  wrote  to  her. 
"Dear  Mother,"  he  replied  on  a  postcard,  "joUy  busy. 
Ever  so  much  to  do.    See  you  soon." 

Young  men  and  young  women  came  to  luncheon  and 
dinner.  He  was  happy  and  merry  with  them  all.  Even 
Fanny,  the  portress  downstairs,  adored  him.  His  smile 
was  irresistible. 

The  strangest  fact  of  all,  perhaps,  was  that  the  war 
had  really  taught  him  nothing.  He  had  for  three  years 
been  face  to  face  with  Eeality,  stared  into  her  eyes, 
studied  her  features,  seeing  her  for  quite  the  first  time, 
r  And  his  vision  of  her  had  made  no  difference  to  him 
at  all.  He  came  back  into  this  false  world  to  find  it 
just  exactly  as  he  had  left  it.  Eeality  slipped  away 
from  him,  and  it  was  as  though  she  had  never  been. 
He  was  as  sure  as  he  had  been  four  years  before  that 


THE  HOK  CLIVE  TORBY  55 

<'  the  world  was  made  only  for  him  and  his — and  not  so 
much  for  his  as  for  him.  Had  you  asked  he  would  not 
have  told  you,  because  he  was  an  Englishman  and 
didn't  think  it  decent  to  boast — but  you  would  have 
seen  it  in  his  eyes  that  he  really  did  believe  that  he  was 
vastly  superior  to  more  than  three-quarters  of  the  rest 
of  humanity — and  this  although  he  had  gone  to  Eton 
and  had  received  therefore  no  education,  although  he 
knew  no  foreign  language,  knew  nothing  about  the 
literature  of  his  own  or  any  other  country,  was  trained 
for  no  business  and  no  profession,  and  could  only  spell 
with  a  good  deal  of  hit-and-miss  result. 

Moreover,  when  you  faced  him  and  thought  of  these 
things,  you  yourself  were  not  sure  whether,  after  all, 
he  were  not  right.  He  was  so  handsome,  so  seK-confi- 
dent,  so  fearless,  so  touching  with  his  youth  and  his 
armless  sleeve,  that  you  could  not  but  wonder  whether 
the  world,  after  all,  was  not  made  for  such  as  he.  The 
old  world  perhaps — but  the  new  one  ?  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  Clive  danced. 

He  flung  himself  into  such  an  atmosphere  of  dancing 
that  he  seemed  to  dance  all  his  relations  and  acquaint- 
ances into  it  with  him.  He  could  not  believe  that 
everyone  was  not  spending  the  time  in  dancing.  Albert 
Edward,  whose  official  name  was  Banks,  assured  him 
that  he  had  no  time  for  dancing. 

'TSTo  time!"  said  Clive,  greatly  concerned.  "Poor 
devil !     I  don't  know  how  you  get  along." 

Albert  Edward,  who  approved  of  the  Hon.  Clive 
because  of  his  pluck,  his  birth,  his  good  looks,  and  his 
generosity,  only  smiled. 


56  THE  THIRTEEIT  TEAYELLEKS 

"Got  to  earn  my  living,  sir,"  lie  said. 

''Really,  must  you  ?"  Clive  was  concerned.  "Well, 
it's  a  damned  shame  after  all  you've  done  over  tliere." 

"Someone's  got  to  work  still,  I  suppose,  sir,"  said 
Albert  Edward;  "and  it's  my  belief  that  it's  them  that\ 
C^  works  hardest  now  will  reap  the  'arvest  soonest — ^that's  / 
my  belief."  / 

"Eeally!"  said  Clive  in  politely  interested  tone. 
"Well,  Banks,  if  you  want  to  know  my  idea,  it  is  that  it's 
about  time  that  some  of  us  enjoyed  ourselves — after  all 
we've  been  through.  Let  the  old  un's  who've  stayed 
at  home  do  the  work." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Albert  Edward. 

It  did  indeed  seem  a  shame  to  Clive  that  anyone 
should  have  to  work  at  all — that  nice  girl  Fanny,  for 
instance,  who  was  portress  downstairs,  or  that  poor  old 
decrepit-looking  thing  who  was  night-porter  and  opened 
the  door  for  Clive  at  four  in  the  morning. 

He  told  Eanny  what  he  thought.  Fanny  laughed. 
"I  love  my  work,  sir,"  she  said ;  "I  wouldn't  be  without 
it  for  anything," 

"Wouldn't  you  really,  now?"  said  Clive,  staring  at 
her. 

Dimly  he  perceived  that  these  months  after  the 
Armistice  and  during  the  early  months  of  1919  were  a 
queer  time — no  one  seemed  to  know  what  was  going  to 
happen.  The  state  of  the  world  was  very  uncomfort- 
able did  one  look  into  it  too  closely ;  even  into  the  chaste 
and  decorous  quarter  of  St.  James's  rumours  of  im- 
pending revolution  penetrated.  People  were  unhappy 
— had  not  enough  to  eat,  had  no  roof  over  their  heads, 


THE  HOK  CLIVE  TORBY  57 

always  one  thing  or  another.  The  papers  were  beastly, 
so  Clive  gave  up  looking  at  them,  save  only  the  Sporting 
Times,  and  devoted  his  hours  that  were  saved  from  danc- 
ing to  a  little  gentle  betting,  to  wondering  whether  Joe 
Beckett  would  beat  Goddard,  and  when  he  had  beaten 
him  to  wondering  whether  he  would  beat  Georges  Car- 
pentier,  and  to  playing  a  rubber  or  two  of  auction  bridge 
at  White's,  and  to  entertaining  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men already  mentioned. 

He  was  not,  during  this  period,  worrying  at  all  about 
money.  He  very  seldom  saw  his  old  father,  who  never 
came  up  to  town  and  never  wrote  letters.  Old  Lord 
Dronda,  who  was  now  nearly  seventy,  stayed  at  the 
place  in  Hertfordshire — he  loved  cows  and  pigs  and 
horses,  and  Clive  imagined  him  perfectly  happy  in  the 
midst  of  these  animals. 

He  had  an  ample  allowance,  but  was  compelled  to 
reinforce  it  by  writing  cheques  on  his  mother's  account. 
She  had,  when  he  lost  his  arm,  given  him  an  open 
cheque-book  on  her  bank.  There  was  nothing  too  good 
for  such  a  hero.  He  did  not  naturally  think  about 
money,  he  did  not  like  to  be  bothered  about  it,  but  he 
was  vaguely  rather  proud  of  himself  for  keeping  out  of 
the  money-lenders'  hands  and  not  gambling  more  deeply 
at  bridge.  Luckily,  dancing  left  one  little  time  for  that 
— "Keeps  me  out  of  mischief,  jazzing  does,"  he  told 
his  friends.  He  had,  in  his  room,  a  photograph  of  his 
father — an  old  photograph,  but  like  the  old  man  still. 
Lord  Dronda  was  squarely  built  and  had  side-whiskers 
and  pepper-and-salt  trousers.  He  looked  like  a  pros- 
perous farmer.    His  thighs  were  thick,  his  nose  square, 


58  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLEES 

and  he  wore  a  billycock  a  little  on  one  side  of  his  head. 
Clive  had  not  seen  his  father  for  so  long  a  time  that  it 
gave  him  quite  a  shock  to  come  in  one  afternoon  and 
find  the  old  man  sitting  under  his  photograph,  a  thick 
stick  in  his  hand  and  large  gaiters  above  his  enormous 
boots.  He  was  looking  about  him  with  a  lost  and  be- 
wildered air  and  sitting  on  the  very  edge  of  the  sofa. 
His  grey  bowler  was  on  the  back  of  his  head. 

"Hullo,  Guv'nor !"  Clive  cried.  Clive  was  a  little 
bewildered  at  the  sight  of  the  old  man.  His  plan  had 
been  a  nap  before  dressing  for  dinner.  He  had  been 
dancing  until  six  that  morning,  and  was  naturally  tired, 
but  he  was  a  kindly  man,  and  therefore  nice  to  his 
father. 

"I'm  delighted  to  see  you  1"  he  said.  "But  whatever 
are  you  doing  up  here  ?" 

The  old  mpoi  was  not  apparently  greatly  delighted 
to  see  Clive.  He  was  lost  and  bewildered,  and  seemed 
to  have  trouble  in  finding  his  words.  He  stammered 
and  looked  helplessly  about  him. 

His  son  asked  him  whether  he'd  have  any  tea.  "Nof 
he  wouldn't  have  any  tea — ^no,  nothing  at  all. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  brought  out  at  last,  "that  Dronda's 
to  be  sold,  and  I  thought  you  ought  to  know." 

Dronda  to  be  sold !  The  words  siwitched  back  before 
Clive's  eyes  that  figure  of  Reality  that  recently  he  had 
forgotten.  Dronda  to  be  sold !  He  saw  his  own  youth 
coloured  with  the  green  of  the  lawns,  the  silver  of  the 
lake,  the  deep  red  brick  of  the  old  house.  Dronda  to 
be  sold! 

"But  that's  impossible,  father  I"  he  cried. 


THE  HOK  CLIYE  TORBY  59 

He  found,  however,  that  a  great  deal  more  than  that 
was  possible.  He  had  never  possessed,  as  he  had  been 
used  sometimes  proudly  to  boast,  a  very  good  head  for 
figures,  and  the  old  man  had  not  a  great  talent  for  mak- 
ing things  clear,  but  the  final  point  was  that  the  Income 
Tax  and  the  general  increased  expenses  of  living  had 
made  Dronda  impossible. 

"Also,  my  boy,"  Lord  Dronda  added,  "all  the  money 
you've  been  spending  lately — your  mother  only  con- 
fessed to  me  last  week.  You'll  have  to  get  some  work 
and  settle  down  at  it.  I'm  son-y,  but  the  old  days  are 
gone." 

I'm  quite  aware  that  this  is  not  a  very  original  story. 
On  how  many  occasions  in  how  many  novels  has  the 
young  heir  to  the  entails  been  suddenly  faced  with  pov- 
erty and  been  compelled  to  sit  down  and  work  ?  l^ine 
times  out  of  ten  most  nobly  has  he  done  it,  and  ten  times 
out  of  ten  he  has  won  the  girl  of  his  heart  by  so  doing. 

The  only  novelty  here  is  the  moment  of  the  catas- 
trophe. Here  was  the  very  period  towards  which, 
through  years  and  years  of  discomfort  and  hoiTor  in 
Prance,  young  Clive  had  been  looking.  "After  the 
war  he  would  have  the  time  of  his  life" ;  "after  the  war" 
had  arrived  and  Dronda  was  to  be  sold !  His  first  im- 
pulse was  to  abuse  fate  generally  and  his  father  in 
particulai-.  One  glance  at  the  old  man  checked  that. 
How  funny  he  looked,  sitting  there  on  the  edge  of  the 
sofa,  his  thick  stick  between  his  knees,  his  hat  tilted 
back,  and  that  air  of  bewildered  perplexity  on  his 
round  face  as  of  a  baby  confronted  with  his  fil-st 
thunder-storm.     His  thick-set,   rather  stout  body,  his 


60  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

side-whiskers,  his  rougli  red  hands — all  seemed  to  re- 
move him  completely  from  the  smart,  slim,  dark  young 
man  who  sat  opposite  him.  ISTevertheless  Clive  felt  the 
bond.  He  was  suddenly  in  unison  with  his  father  as  he 
had  never  been,  in  all  his  life,  with  his  mother.  His 
father  and  he  had  never  had  what  one  would  call  a 
''heart-to-heart"  conversation  in  their  lives — they  did 
not  have  one  now.  They  would  have  been  bitterly  dis- 
tressed at  such  an  idea.     All  Clive  said  was : 

''Wliat  a  bore !  I  didn't  know  things  were  like  that. 
You  ought  to  have  told  me." 

To  which  Dronda  replied,  his  eyes  wistfully  on  his 
son's  empty  sleeve: 

"I  didn't  think  it  would  get  so  bad.  You'll  have 
to  find  some  work.  ISTo  need  for  us  to  bother  your 
mother  about  it." 

The  old  man  got  up  to  go.  His  eyes  moved  uncom- 
fortably from  one  photograph  to  another.  He  pulled 
at  his  high  collar  as  though  he  felt  the  room  close. 

"Sure  you  won't  have  an}i;hing?"  said  Clive. 

"'No,  thanks,"  said  his  father. 

"Well,  don't  you  worry.  I'll  get  some  work  all  right. 
I'll  have  to  pull  my  horns  in  a  bit,  though." 

And  that  was  positively  all  that  was  said.  Dronda 
went  away,  that  puzzled,  bewildered  look  still  hovering 
between  his  mouth  and  his  eyes,  his  gTey  bowler  still 
a  little  to  one  side. 

After  he  was  gone  Clive  considered  the  matter. 
Once  the  first  shock  was  over  things  were  really  not  so 
bad.  The  loss  of  Dronda  was  horrible,  of  course,  and 
Clive  thought  of  that  as  little  as  might  be,  but  even 


THE  H0:N'.  CLIVE  TORBY  61 

there  the  war  had  made  a  difference,  having  shaken 
everything,  in  its  tempestuous  course,  to  the  groimd, 
so  that  one  looked  on  nothing  now  as  permanent.  As 
to  work,  Clive  would  not  mind  that  at  all.  There  was 
quite  a  number  of  things  that  he  would  like  to  do. 
There  wpre  all  these  new  Ministries,  for  instance;  he 
thought  of  vai'ious  friends  that  he  had.  He  wrote 
down  the  names  of  one  or  two.  Or  there  was  the  City. 
He  had  often  fancied  that  he  would  like  to  go  into  the 
City.  You  made  money  there,  he  understood,  in  sim- 
ply no  time  at  all.  And  you  needed  no  education. 
.  .  .  He  thought  of  one  or  two  City  men  whom  he 
knew  and  wrote  down  their  names. 

One  or  two  other  things  occurred  to  him.  Before  he 
went  out  to  dine  he  had  written  a  dozen  notes.  He  liked 
to  think  that  he  could  be  prompt  and  'businessr-like  when 
there  was  need. 

During  the  next  day  or  two  he  had  quite  a  merry  time 
with  his  friends  about  the  affair.  He  laughingly  de- 
picted himself  as  a  serious  man  of  business,  one  of 
those  men  whom  you  see  in  the  cinemas,  men  who  sit 
at  enormous  desks  and  have  big  fists  and  Kolls-Boyces. 
He  spent  one  especially  jolly  evening,  first  at  Claridge's, 
then  "As  you  Were"  at  the  Pavilion  (Sir  Billion  de 
Boost  was  what  he  would  shortly  be,  he  told  his  laugh- 
ing companion),  then  dancing.  Oh,  a  delightful  even- 
ing! "My  last  kick!"  he  called  it;  and  looking  back 
afterwards,  he  found  that  he  had  spoken  more  truly  than 
he  knew. 

His  friends  answered  his  notes  and  asked  him  to  go 
and  see  them.    "He  went.     There  then  began  a  very 


62    THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

strange  period   of   discovery.     Eirst   he   went   to   tlie 
Labour  Ministry  and  saw  his  old  friend  Reggie  Burr. 

Reggie  looked  most  official  in  his  room  with  his  tele- 
phone and  things.  Clive  told  him  so.  Reggie  smiled, 
but  said  that  he  was  pressed  for  time  and  would  Clive 
just  mind  telling  him  what  it  was  he  wanted.  Clive 
found  it  harder  to  tell  him  than  he  had  expected.  He 
was  modest  and  uneloquent  about  his  time  in  France, 
and  after  that  there  really  was  not  very  much  to  say. 
What  had  he  done?  What  could  he  do?  .  .  .  Well, 
not  very  much.  He  laughed.  "I'm  sure  I'd  fit  into 
something,"  he  said. 

"I'll  let  you  know  if  there  is  anything,"  said  Reggie 
Burr. 

And  so  it  went  on.  It  was  too  strange  how  definite 
these  men  wanted  him  to  be !  As  the  days  passed  Clive 
had  the  impression  that  the  world  was  getting  larger 
and  larger  and  emptier  and  emptier.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  could  not  touch  boundaries  nor  horizons. 
...  It  was  a  new  world,  and  he  had  no  place  in  it.  .  .  . 

The  dancing  suddenly  receded,  or  rath^  was  pushed 
and  huddled  back,  as  the  nurse  in  old  days  took  one's 
toys  and  crammed  them  into  a  corner.  Clive  found 
it  no  longer  amusing.  He  was  puzzled,  and  dancing 
did  not  help  him  to  any  discovery.  He  found  that  he 
had  nothing  to  say  to  his  friends  on  these  occasions.  He 
was  aware  that  they  were  saying  behind  his  back: 
"What's  come  to  Clive  Toby  ?  .  .  .  Dull  as  ditchwater." 

He  went  about  with  a  bemused,  blinded  expression. 
He  was  seeing  himself  for  the  first  time.  Hortons  and 
everything  in  it  had  quite  a  new  life  for  him:  Mr. 


THE  HOiT.  CLIVE  TORBY  63 

Nix,  Fanny,  Albert  Edward — all  these  people  were 
earning  their  living  and  earning  it  much  more  ef- 
ficiently than  he  seemed  to  be  able  to  do.  All  the  time 
behind  them  seemed  to  stand  that  wistful  figure  of  his 
father.  "I'd  like  to  do  something  for  the  old  man," 
he  thought. 

Down  in  the  City  his  experiences  were  very  strange. 
The  first  three  men  whom  he  saw  were  very  polite  and 
jolly,  and  said  "they'd  let  him  know  if  anything  turned 
up."  They  asked  him  what  business  experience  he  had 
had,  and  then  how  much  money  he  was  prepared  to 
put  into  a  "concern" ;  and  when  he  had  answered  them 
with  a  jolly  laugh  and  said  that  he  had  had  no  experi- 
ence, but  had  no  doubt  that  he  "would  shake  down  all 
right,"  and  that  he  had  no  money,  but  "really  would 
take  his  coat  off  and  work,"  they  smiled,  and  said  that 
"things  were  bad  in  the  City  just  now,  but  they  would 
let  him  know." 

They  all  liked  him,  he  felt,  and  he  liked  them,  and 
that  was  as  far  as  it  went.  But  his  experience  with  his 
fourth  friend  was  different.  Sir  James  Maradick, 
Bai't,  could  scarcely  be  called  a  friend  of  his.  He  had 
met  him  once  at  someone's  house;  Reggie  Burr  had 
given  him  a  note  to  him.  He  was  a  big  broad  man 
somewhere  near  sixty,  and  he  was  as  nice  to  Clive  as 
possible,  but  he  didn't  mince  matters. 

He  had  been  given  his  Baronetcy  for  some  fine  organ- 
ising work  that  he  had  done  in  the  war.  Clive,  who 
did  not  think  much  about  men  as  a  rule,  liked  him  bet- 
ter than  any  man  he'd  ever  met.  "This  fellow  would 
do  for'  me,"  he  thought. 


64  TKE  THIRTEE]^  TEAVELLEES 

The  qnestion,  however,  was  whether  Olive  would  do 
for  Maradick. 

"What  have  you  done  ?"  Maradick  asked. 

"H'm.  Eton  and  Oxford.  .  .  .  And  what  kind  of 
3'ob  are  you  looking  for?" 

Olive  modestly  explained — somewhere  about  six  hun- 
dred a  year.  He  wanted  to  help  the  governor  through 
a  stiff  tima 

Maradick  smiled.  That  was  very  nice.  Would 
Olive  mind  Maradick  speaking  quite  plainly?  ISTot  at 
all.     That  was  what  Olive  wanted. 

Maradick  then  said  that  it  was  like  a  fairy-tale.  He 
had  had,  during  the  last  fortnight,  four  fellows  who 
wanted  jobs  at  anything  from  five  hundred  to  a  thou- 
sand a  year.  All  of  them  very  modest.  Hadn't  had 
any  experience,  but  thought  they  could  drop  into  it. 
All  of  them  dona  well  in  the  war.  All  of  them  wanted 
to  keep  their  parents  .  .  .  very  creditable. 

But  there  was  another  side  to  the  question.  Did 
Olive  know  that  there  were  hundreds  of  men  ready  to 
come  in  at  three  hundred  a  year  and  less,  men.  who 
had  been  in  the  Oity  since  nine  years  old,  men  who  had 
the  whole  thing  at  their  fingers'  ends  .  .  .  hundreds  of 
them  .  .  .    ? 

/  "The  world  was  made  for  you  boys  before  the  war. 
You  won't  think  me  rude,  vnW  you?  You  went  to 
Eton  and  Oxford  and  learnt  nothing  at  all,  and  then 
waited  for  things  to  tumble  into  your  hands.  That's 
why  commercial  Germany  beat  us  all  round  the  world. 
Well,  it  won't  be  so  any  longer.     The  new  world  isn't 


THE  HOK  CLIVE  TORBY  65 

made  for  you  boys.  You've  got  to  win  your  way  into 
it" 

"You're  quite  right,"  Clive  blushed.  "Thank  you 
yery  much." 

Maradidi  looked  at  him,  and  his  heart  warmed  to 
him.      "?. 

"Take  my  tip  and  do  a  working-man's  job.  What 
i  bout  house-painting,  for  instance,  or  driving  a  taxi  ? 
They're  getting  big  money.  Just  for  a  bit — ^to  try  your 
hand." 

"IN'ot  a  bad  idea,"  said  Clive.  They  shook  hands  in 
a  most  friendly  fashion.  Maradick  spoke  to  his  part- 
ner (at  lunch)  about  him.  "iJsTice  boy,"  he  said. 
^^We'U  have  him  in  here  later." 

Clive  went  back  to  Hoi-tons  and  met  there  the  temp- 
tation of  his  life  in  the  shape  of  his  mother. 

She  was  looking  lovely  in  grey  silk,  Parma  violets, 
and  a  little  black  hat.  She  was  in  one  of  her  most  sen- 
timental moods.  She  cried  a  good  deal  and  asked  Clive 
what  he  intended  to  do.  When  she  asked  him  that, 
what  she  really  wanted  was  that  he  should  say  that  he 
loved  her.  This  he  did  in  a  huii-ied  fashion,  because 
he  wanted  to  tell  her  about  Maradick.  She  had,  how- 
ever, her  own  thing-s  that  she  wanted  to  say,  and  these 
werej  in  the  main,  that  he  was  "her  all,"  that  it  was 
too  awful  about  Dronda,  that  John  (Lord  Dronda)  had 
simply  been  losing  thousands  over  his  stupid  old  agri- 
culture, and,  finally,  that  she  had  money  of  her  own 
on  which  dear  Clive  should  live  to  the  end  of  his  days. 
All  this  nonsense  about  his  working,  as  though  he  hadn't 


66  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

done  enough  already  with  his  poor  arm  and  everything. 
They  should  go  away  together  and  have  a  lovely  time. 

Clive  was  tempted.  For  ten  minutes  there  raged  a 
fierce  battle.  He  knew  that  what  she  said  could  be  true 
enough.  That  they  could  go  away  together  and  spend 
money  together,  and  that  she  would  give  him  everything 
that  she  had,  and  only  want  him  in  return  to  say  over 
and  over  again  that  he  loved  her.  They  would  wander 
about,  and  probably  he  would  find  some  rich  girl  who 
would  marry  him,  and  then  he  would  live  on  her.  .  .  . 

While  he  thought  this  out,  words  poured  from  his 
mother's  lips  in  tattered  confusion.  JSTo  words  used  by 
his  mother  ever  meant  what  she  intended  them  to  mean. 
!N'evertheless,  the  last  question  held  the  substance  of 
them  all.  ''And  you  do  really  love  me,  Clive  boy, 
don't  you  ?" 

The  "Clive  boy"  really  settled  it,  although  I  hope  and 
believe  that  it  would  have  been  settled  without  that. 
But  he  could  not  wander  about  Europe  as  "Clive 
boy."  .  .  . 

So  he  said:  "Thanks,  mother.  You're  a  brick, 
wantin'  me  to  have  everything  and  all  that.  But  I 
really  won't.     I'm  going  to  settle  down  and  work." 

"Whatever  at,  you  poor  foolish  darling?"  asked  his 
mother. 

"At  anything  I  can  get,"  he  replied. 

She  left  him  at  last,  having  cried  just  enough  to 
show  her  real  emotion  without  damaging  her  unreal 
complexion.     Her  Parma  violets  were  also  intact. 

He  was  an  unkind,  ungTateful  son,  and  her  heart  was 


THE  HON.  CLIVE  TORBY  67 

broken,  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  "ber  all,"  and 
would  be  luncb  with  ber  to-morrow  at  Claridge's? 

Tbis  be  said  tbat  be  would  do.  "My  last  good  meal," 
be  murmured  to  bimself  ratber  bistrionically. 

His  motber  departed. 

He  bad  a  bad  quarter  of  an  bour  after  sbe  bad  gone. 
Tbe  sacred  precincts  of  Hortons  contained  at  least  one 
bonest  soul  tbat  afternoon.  He  saw  bimself  exactly  as 
be  was — spoilt,  useless,  idle,  and  conceited.  He  swore 
to  bimself  tbat  be  would  find  work  of  some  kind  before 
tbe  day  was  done. 

He  went  out.  It  was  a  lovely  afternoon  early  in  May. 
Mr.  Bottome,  tbe  newsagent,  bad  fine  copies  of  Colour 
sbowing  in  bis  window,  tbe  top  of  Duke  Street  gazed 
straight  into  tbe  buge  naked-looking  statue  of  a  borse 
in  tbe  courtyard  of  tbe  Academy.  Eveijtbing  seemed 
to  be  having  a  spring  cleaning. 

He  turned  back  and  down  into  Jermyn  Street.  ISText 
to  tbe  Hamman  Baths  they  were  painting  a  house  light 
green.  A  nice  young  fellow  in  overalls  stepped  off  a 
ladder  as  Clive  passed. 

He  smiled  at  Clive.     Clive  smiled  back. 

"Is  that  an  easy  job?"  Clive  asked  him. 

"Ob  yes,  sir,"  the  young  fellow  answered. 

"Could  you  manage  it  with  one  arm  ?"  Clive  asked. 

"Why,  yes,"  the  man  said. 

"Could  I  pick  it  up  quickly  ?" 

"Lord,  yes!" 

"Will  you  teach  me  ?" 

******* 


68  THE  THIRTEElSr  TRAVELLEES 

A  week  later  Mr.  ^ix,  in  a  hurry  as  usual,  was  pat- 
tering up  Duke  Street.  Bottome's  paper  shop  was  hav- 
ing a  new  coat  of  paint.  A  young  workman  in  yellow 
overalls  perched  on  a  ladder  managed  his  brush  adroitly 
with  one  arm. 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Mr.  ISTix,  a  compassionate  man 
always,  but  doubly  so  now  because  he  had  lost  his  son 
in  the  war.     "Left  the  other  in  France,  I  suppose." 

The  workman  looked  down,  and  revealed  to  the  aston- 
ished countenance  of  Mr.  l^ix  the  laughing  eyes  of  his 
late  tenant,  the  Hon.  Clive  Torby. 


rv 

MISS  MOKGANHURST 

T  T  may  be  that  in  future  years  when  critics  and  com- 
X  mentators  look  back  upon  the  European  War,  one 
of  the  aspects  of  it  that  will  seem  to  them  strangest 
will  be  the  attitude  of  complete  indifference  that  certain 
people  assumed  during  the  course  of  it.  Indifference! 
That  is  an  inefficient  word.  It  is  not  too  strong  to  say 
that  hundreds  of  men  and  women  in  London  during 
those  horrible  years  were  completely  unconscious,  save 
on  the  rare  occasions  when  rationing  or  air-raids  forced 
them  to  attend,  that  there  was  any  war  at  all.  There 
were  men  in  clubs,  women  in  drawing-rooms  .  .  .  old 
maids  and  old  bachelors  .  .  .  old  maids  like  Miss  Mor- 
ganhurst. 

How  old  Miss  Morganhurst  really  was,  for  how  long 
she  had  been  raising  her  lorgnette  to  gaze  scornfully 
at  Society,  for  how  many  years  now  she  had  been  sitting 
down  to  bridge  on  fine  sunny  afternoons  with  women 
like  Anne  Carteledge  and  Mrs.  Mellish  and  Mrs.  Porter, 
for  how  many  more  years  she  had  lived  in  N^o.  30  flat 
at  Hortons,  she  alone  had  the  secret — even  Agatha,  her 
sour  and  confidential  maid,  could  not  tell. 

No  one  knew  whence  she  came ;  years  ago  some  young 
wag  had  christened  her  the  ^'Morgue,"  led  to  that 
diminutive  by  the  strange  pallor  of  her  cheeks,  the  queer 

69 


70  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLEES 

bone-cracking  little  body  she  had  and  her  fashion  of 
dressing  herself  up  in  jewellery  and  bright  colours 
that  gave  her  a  certain  sort  of  ghastliness.  She  had 
been  for  years  an  intimate  of  all  sorts  of  sets  in  London : 
no  one  could  call  her  a  snob — she  went  just  everywhere, 
and  knew  just  everyone;  she  was  after  two  things  in 
life — scandal  and  bridge — and  whether  it  were  the  old 
Duchess  of  Wrexe's  drawing-room  (without  the  Duch- 
ess of  course)  or  the  cheapest  sort  of  provincial  tea- 
party,  she  was  equally  at  home  and  satisfied.  She  was 
like  a  ferret  with  her  beady  eyes — a  dressed-up  ferret. 
Yes,  and  like  the  "Morgue"  too,  a  sniff  of  corruption 
about  her  somewhere. 

People  had  said  for  many  years  that  she  was  the 
best  bridge-player  in  London,  and  that  she  lived  by 
her  winnings.  That  was,  I  daresay,  true  enough.  Her 
pale  face  looked  as  though  it  fed  on  artificial  light, 
and  her  over-decorated  back  was  always  bent  a  little, 
as  though  she  were  for  ever  stooping  over  a  table. 

I've  seen  her  play  bridge,  and  it's  not  a  sight  one's 
likely  to  forget — bent  almost  double,  her  hooky  fingers 
of  a  dull  yellow  loaded  with  rings  pointing  towards 
some  card  and  her  eyes  literally  flashing  fire.  Lord! 
how  these  women  played !  Life  and  death  to  them  truly 
...  no  gentle  card-game  for  them.  She  was  a  woman 
who  hated  sentiment;  her  voice  was  hard  and  dry,  with 
a  rasp  in  it  like  the  movement  of  an  ill-fitting  gate.  She 
boasted  that  she  cared  for  no  human  being  alive,  she  did 
not  believe  in  human  affection.  Her  maid,  Agatha, 
she  said,  would  cut  her  throat  for  twopence ;  but,  expect- 


MISS  MORGANIIURST  71 

ing  to  be  left  sometliing  in  the  will,  stayed  on  savagely 
hoping. 

It  is  hard,  however,  for  even  the  dryest  of  human  souls 
to  be  attached  to  nothing.  Miss  Morganhurst  had  her 
attachment — to  a  canine,  fragment  of  skin  and  bone 
known  as  Tiny-Tee.  Tiny-Tee  was  so  small  that  it 
could  not  have  been  said  to  exist  had  not  its  perpetual 
misery  given  it  a  kind  of  spasmodic  loveliness.  It  is 
the  nature  of  these  dogs  to  shiver  and  shake  and  tremble, 
but  nothing  ever  lived  up  to  its  nature  more  thoroughly 
than  Tiny-Tee.  Miss  Morganhurst  (in  her  own  fierce 
rasping  way)  adored  this  creature.  It  never  left  her, 
and  sat  on  her  lap  during  bridge  shuddering  and  shiv- 
ering amongst  a  multitude  of  little  gold  chains  and  keys 
and  purses  that  jangled  and  rattled  with  every  shiver. 

Then  came  the  war,  and  it  shook  the  world  to  pieces. 
It  did  not  shake  Miss  Morganhurst. 

For  one  bad  moment  she  fancied  that  bridge  would 
be  difficult  and  that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  provide 
Tiny-Tee  with  her  proper  biscuits.  She  consulted  with 
Mrs.  Mellish  and  Mrs.  Porter,  and  after  looking  at  the 
thing  from  every  side  they  were  of  opinion  that  it 
would  be  possible  still  to  find  a  "four."  She  further 
summoned  up  Mr.  'Nix  from  the  "vasty  deeps"  of  the 
chambers  and  endeavom-ed  to  probe  his  mind.  This 
she  did  easily,  and  Mr.  Nix  became  quite  confidential. 
He  thoroughly  approved  of  Miss  Morganhurst,  partly 
because  she  knew  such  very  grand  people,  which  was 
good  for  his  chambers,  and  partly  because  Miss  Morgan- 
hurst had  no  kind  of  morals  and  you  could  say  any- 
thing you  liked.     Mr.  Xix  was  a  kindly  little  man  and 


72  THE  THIKTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

a  diplomatic,  and  he  suited  himself  to  liis  company; 
but  he  did  like  sometimes  to  be  quite  unbuttoned  and  not 
to  have  "to  think  of  every  word." 

With  Miss  Morganhurst  you  needn't  think  of  any- 
thing. She  found  his  love  of  gossip  very  agreeable 
indeed ;  she  approved,  too,  of  his  honourable  code.  You 
were  safe  with  him.  !N"ot  a  thing  would  he  ever  give 
away  about  any  other  inhabitant  of  Hortons.  She 
asked  him  about  the  food  for  Tiny-Tee,  and  he  assured 
her  that  he  would  do  his  best.  And  the  little  dinners 
for  four  ?  .  .  .  She  need  not  be  anxious. 

After  which  she  dismissed  the  war  altogether  from 
her  mind.  It  would,  of  course,  emphasise  its  more 
unagreeable  features  in  the  paper.  That  was  unfor- 
tunate. But  very  soon  the  press  cleverly  discovered  a 
kind  of  camouflage  of  phi'ase  which  covered  up  reality 
completely.  "The  honourable  gentleman,  speaking  at 
iN'ewcastle  last  night,  said  that  we  would  not  sheathe  the 

sword  until "    "Over  the  top !  those  are  the  words 

for  which  our  brave  lads  are  waiting "  "Our  of- 
fensive in  these  ai'eas  inflicted  very  heavy  losses  on  the 
Germans  and  resulted  in  the  capture  of  important  po- 
sitions by  the  Allied  troops." 

It  seemed  that  Miss  Morganhurst  read  these  phrases 
for  a  week  or  two,  and  easily  persuaded  herself  that 
the  war  was  non-existent.  She  was  happy  that  it  was 
so.  It  apears  incredible  that  anyone  could  have  dis- 
missed the  war  so  easily,  but  then  Miss  Morganhurst 
was  surely  impenetrable. 

I  have  heard  different  explanations  given  by  people, 
who  knew  her  well,  of  Miss  Morganhurst's  impenetra- 


( 


MISS  MORGANHURST  73 

bility.  Some  said  that  it  was  a  mask,  assumed  to  cover 
and  defeat  feelings  that  were  dangerous  to  liberate; 
others,  that  she  was  so  selfish  and  egoistic  that  she 
really  did  not  care  about  anybody.  This  is  the  interest- 
ing point  about  Miss  Morganlmrst.  Did  she  banish  / 
the  war  entirely  from  her  consciousness  and  give  it  no 
further  consideration,  or  was  she,  in  truth,  desperately 
and  with  ever-increasing  terror  aware  of  it  and  unable 
to  resist  it? 

She  gave  no  sign  until  the  very  end;  but  the  nature 
of  that  end  leads  me  to  believe  that  the  first  of  the  two 
theories  is  the  correct  one.  People  who  knew  her  have 
said  that  her  devotion  to  that  wretched  little  canine 
remnant  proves  that  she  had  no  heart,  but  only  a  fluent 
sentimentality.  I  believe  it  to  have  proved  exactly 
the  opposite.  I  believe  her  to  have  been  the  cynic  she 
was  because  she  had,  at  some  time  or  other,  been  deeply 
disappointed.  She  had,  I  imagine,  no  illusions  about 
herself,  and  saw  that  the  only  thing  to  be,  if  she  were 
to  fight  at  all,  was  ruthless,  harsh,  money-gTubbing, 
and,  above  all,  to  bury  herself  in  other  people's  scan- 
dal. She  was,  I  rather  fancy,  one  of  those  women  for 
whom  life  would  have  been  completely  changed,  had 
she  been  given  beauty  or  even  moderate  good  looks. 
As  life  had  not  given  her  that,  she  would  pay  it  back. 
And  after  all,  life  was  stronger  than  she  knew.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  refuse  to  discuss  the  war,  but  she  spoke 
of  it  as  of  something  remotely  distant,  playing  itself 
out  in  the  sands  of  the  Sahara,  for  instance.  !N'othing 
stirred  her  cynical  humour  more  deeply  than  the  heroics 
on  both  sides.     When  politicians  or  kings  or  generals 


74  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

got  up  and  said  before  all  the  world  how  just  their  cause 
was  and  how  keen  thej  were  about  honour  and  truth 
and  self-sacrifice,  and  how  certain  they  were,  after 
all,  to  win,  Miss  Morganhurst  gave  her  sinister  villain- 
ous chuckle. 

She  became  something  of  a  power  during  the  bad 
years,  when  the  air-raids  came  and  the  casualties 
mounted  higher  and  higher,  and  Roumania  came  in 
only  to  break,  and  the  Russian  revolution  led  to  the 
sinister  ghoulishness  of  Brest-Litovsk.  People  sought 
her  company.  "We'll  go  and  see  the  'Morgue,'  "  they 
said;  "she  never  mentions  the  war."  She  never  did; 
she  refused  absolutely  to  consider  it.  She  would  not 
even  discuss  prices  and  raids  and  ration-books.  Pri- 
vate history  was  what  she  cared  for,  and  that  generally 
on  the  scabious  side,  if  possible.  What  she  liked  to 
know  was  who  was  sick  of  her,  why  so-and-so  had  left 
such-and-such  a  place,  whether  X was  really  drink- 
ing, and  why  Z had  taken  to  cocaine.     Her  bridge 

got  better  and  better,  and  it  used  to  be  a  real  trial  of 
strength  to  go  and  play  with  her  in  the  untidy,  over- 
full, over-garish  little  flat.  The  arrival  of  the  Armistice 
was,  I  believe  now,  her  first  dangerous  moment.  She 
was  suddenly  forced  to  pause  and  consider ;  it  was  not 
so  easy  to  shut  her  eyes  and  ears  as  it  had  been,  and  the 
things  that  she  had,  against  her  will,  seen  and  heard 
were  now,  in  the  new  silence,  insistent.  She  suddenly, 
as  I  remember  noticing  about  this  time,  got  to  look 
incredibly  old. 

Her  nose  seemed  longer,  her  chin  hookier,  her  hands 


MISS  MORGANHUEST  75 

bonier,  and  little  brown  spots  like  sickly  freckles  ap- 
peared on  her  forehead. 

Her  dress  got  brighter  and  brighter.     She  especially 
affected  a  kind  of  purple  silk,  I  remember. 

The  Armistice  seemed  to  disappoint  her.  It  would 
have  done  us  people  a  lot  of  good  to  get  a  thorough 
trouncing,  I  remember  her  saying.  What  would  have 
happened  to  herself,  and  her  bridge,  had  we  had  that 
trouncing  I  don't  think  she  reflected.  So  far  as  one 
could  see,  she  regarded  herself  as  an  inevitable  per- 
manency. I  wonder  whether  she  really  did.  She 
developed,  too,  just  about  this  time,  an  increased  pas- 
sion for  her  wretched  little  dog.  It  was  as  though,  now 
that  the  war  was  really  nearing  its  close,  she  was  twice 
as  frightened  about  that  animal's  safety  as  she  had  been 
before  ?  Of  what  was  she  afraid  ?  Was  it  some  ghostly 
warning?  Was  it  some  sense  that  she  had  that  fate 
was  surely  going  to  get  her  somewhere,  and  that  now 
that  it  had  missed  her  through  air-raids  it  must  try 
other  means  ?  Or  was  it  simply  that  she  had  more  time 
now  to  spend  over  the  animal's  wants  and  desires  ?  In 
any  case  she  would  not  let  the  dog  out  of  her  sight  unless 
on  some  most  imperative  occasion.  She  trusted  Agatha, 
but  no  one  would  take  so  much  care  as  one  would 
oneself.  The  dog  itself  seemed  now  to  be  restless  and 
alarmed  as  though  it  smelt  already  its  approaching 
doom.  It  got,  so  far  as  one  could  see,  no  pleasure 
from  anything.  There  were  no  signs  that  it  loved  its 
mistiness,  only  it  did  perhaps  have  a  sense  that  she 
could  protect  it  from  outside  disaster.  Every  step, 
every  word,  every  breath  of  wind  seemed  to  drive  its 


76  THE  THIKTEEI^  TRAVELLERS 

little  soul  to  tlie  very  edge  of  extinction — then,  with 
shudderings  and  shiverings  and  tremblings,  back  it 
came  again.     They  were  a  grim  pair,  those  two. 

Christmas  came  and  passed,  and  the  world  began  to 
shake  itself  together  again.  That  same  shaking  was  a 
difficult  business,  attended  with  strikes  and  revolutions 
and  murder  and  despair ;  but  out  of  the  chaos  prophets 
might  discern  a  form  slowly  rising,  a  shape  that  would 
stand  for  a  new  world,  for  a  better  world,  a  kindlier,  a 
cleaner,  honester.  .  .  . 

But  Miss  Morganhurst  was  no  prophet.  Her  sal- 
low eyes  were  intent  on  her  bridge-cards — so,  at  least, 
they  appeared  to  be. 

After  the  catastrophe,  I  talked  with  only  one  person 
who  seemed  to  have  expected  what  actually  occurred. 
This  was  a  funny  old  thing  called  Miss  Williams,  one 
of  Miss  Morganhurst's  more  shabby  friends — a  gossip 
and  a  sentimentalist — the  last  person  in  the  world,  as  I 
would  have  supposed,  to  see  anything  interesting. 

However,  this  old  lady  insisted  that  she  had  perceived, 
during  this  period,  that  Miss  Morganhurst  was  ^'keepiug 
something  back." 

''Keeping  what  back  ?"  I  asked.     "A  guilty  secret  ?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Williams.  ''Dear  me,  no. 
Dahlia  wouldn't  have  minded  anything  of  that  kind. 
!N"o,  it's  my  belief  she  was  affected  by  the  war  long  before 
any  of  us  supposed  it,  and  that  she  wouldn't  think 
of  it  or  look  at  it  because  she  knew  what  would  happen 
if  she  did.  She  knew,  too,  that  she  was  being  haunted 
by  it  all  the  time,  and  that  it  was  all  piMng  up,  ready, 


MISS  MOKGANHUKST  77 

waiting  for  the  moment.  ...  I  do  hope  you  don't  think 
me  fantastical " 

I  didn't  think  her  ''fantastical"  at  all,  but  I  must 
confess  that  when  I  look  back  I  can  see  in  the  Miss 
Morganhurst  of  these  months  nothing  but  a  colossal 
egotism -and  gi-eed. 

However,  I  must  not  be  cniel.  It  was  towards  the 
end  of  April  that  fate,  suddenly  tired  of  waiting,  took 
her  in  hand,  and  finished  her  off. 

One  afternoon  when,  arrayed  in  a  bright  pink  tea- 
gown,  she  was  lying  on  her  sofa,  taking  some  rest  before 
dressing  for  dinner,  Agatha  came  in  and  said  that  her 
brother  was  there  and  would  like  to  see  her.  ITow  Miss 
Morganhurst  had  a  very  surprising  brother — surprising, 
that  is,  for  her.  He  was  a  clergyman  who  had  been  for 
very  many  years  the  rector  of  a  little  parish  in  Wilt- 
shire. So  little  a  parish  was  it  that  it  gave  him  little 
work  and  less  pay,  with  the  result  that  he  was,  at  his 
advanced  age,  shabby  and  moth-eaten  and  dim,  like  a 
poor  old  bird  shut  up  for  many  months  in  a  blinded 
cage  and  let  suddenly  into  the  light.  I  don't  know 
what  Miss  Morganhurst's  dealings  with  her  brother 
had  been,  whether  she  had  been  kind  to  him  or  unkind, 
selfish  or  unselfish ;  but  I  suspect  that  she  had  not  seen 
very  much  of  him.  Their  ways  had  been  too  different, 
their  ambitions  too  separate.  The  old  man  had  had 
one  passion  in  his  life,  his  son,  and  the  boy  had  died 
in  a  German  prison  in  the  sumyier  of  1918.  He  had 
been,  it  was  gathered,  in  one  of  the  more  unpleasant 
German  prisons.  Mr.  Morganhurst  was  a  widower, 
and  this  blow  had  simply  finished  him — the  thread  that 


78  THE  THIETEEN  TKAVELLERS 

connected  him  with  coherent  life  snapped,  and  he  lived 
in  a  world  of  dim  visions  and  incoherent  dreams. 

He  was  not,  in  fact,  quite  right  in  his  head. 

Agatha  must  have  thought  the  couple  a  strange  and 
depressing  pair  as  they  stood  together  in  that  becoloured 
and  becrowded  room,  if,  that  is  to  say,  she  ever  thought 
of  anything  but  herself.  Poor  old  Morganhurst  was 
wearing  an  overcoat  really  green  with  age,  and  his 
squashy  black  hat  was  dusty  and  unbrushed. 

He  wore  large  spectacles,  and  his  chin  was  of  the 
kind  that  seems  always  to  have  two  days'  gTOwth  upon 
it.  The  bottoms  of  his  trousers  were  muddy,  although 
it  was  a  dry  day.  He  stood  there  uneasily  twisting 
his  hat  round  and  round  in  his  fingers  and  blinking 
at  his  sister. 

''Sit  do"«Ti,  Frederick,"  said  his  sister.  "What  can 
I  do  for  you  ?" 

It  seemed  that  he  had  come  simply  to  talk  to  her.  He 
was  going  down  to  Little  Eoseberry  that  evening,  but 
he  had  an  hour  to  spare.  The  fact  was  that  he  was 
besieged,  invaded,  devastated  by  horrors  of  which  he 
could  not  rid  himself. 

If  he  gave  them  to  someone  else  might  they  not  leave 
him?  At  any  rate  he  would  share  them — he  would 
share  them  with  his  sister.  It  appeared  that  an  officer, 
liberated  from  Germany  after  the  Armistice,  had  sought 
him  out  and  given  him  some  last  details  about  his  son's 
death. 

These  "details"  were  not  nice.  There  are,  as  we  all 
know,  German  prisons  and  German  prisons.  Young 
Morganhurst  seemed  to  have  been  sent  to  one  of  the 


MISS  MORGA^^HURST  79 

poorer  sort.  He  had  been  rebellious  and  bad  been  pun- 
ished ;  he  had  been  starved,  shut  up  for  days  in  solitary 
darkness  ...  at  the  end  he  had  found  a  knife  some- 
where and  had  killed  himself. 

The  old  man's  mind  was  like  a  haystack,  and  many 
details  lost  their  way  in  the  general  confusion.  He 
told  what  he  could  to  his  sister.  It  must  have  been  a 
strange  meeting:  the  shabby  old  man  sitting  in  one  of 
those  gaudy  chairs  trying  to  rid  himself  of  his  horror 
and  terror  and,  above  all,  of  his  loneliness.  Here  was 
the  only  relation,  the  only  link,  the  only  hope  of  some- 
thing human  to  comfort  him  in  his  darkness;  and  he 
did  not  know  her,  could  not  see  how  to  appeal  to  her  or 
to  touch  her  .  .  .  she  was  as  strange  to  him  as  a  bird 
of  paradise.  She  on  her  side,  as  I  now  can  see,  had 
her  own  horror  to  fight.  Here  at  last  was  the  thing  that 
throughout  the  war  she  had  struggled  to  keep  away 
from  her.  She  knew,  and  she  alone,  how  susceptible 
she  was!  But  she  could  not  turn  him  away;  he  was 
her  brother,  and  she  hated  him  for  coming — shabby 
old  man — but  she  must  hear  him  out. 

She  sat  there,  the  dog  clutched,  shivering  to  her 
skinny  breast.  I  don't  suppose  that  she  said  very  much, 
but  she  listened.  Against  her  will  she  listened,  and 
it  must  have  been  with  her  as  it  is  with  some  traveller 
when,  in  the  distance,  he  hears  the  rushing  of  the 
avalanche  that  threatens  to  ovei-whelm  him.  But  she 
didn't  close  her  ears.  From  what  she  said  afterwards 
one  knows  that  she  must  have  heard  everything  that  he 
said. 

He  very  quickly,  I  expect,  forgot  that  he  had  an  an- 


80  THE  THIKTEEN"  TRAVELLEES 

dience  at  all.  The  words  poured  out.  There  was  some 
German  officer  who  had  been  described  to  him  and  he 
had  grown,  in  his  mind,  to  be  the  very  devil  himself. 
He  was  a  brute,  I  daresay,  but  there  are  brutes  in  every 
country.  .  .  . 

"He  had  done  simply  nothing — ^just  spoken  back 
when  they  insulted  him.  They  took  his  clothes  off  him 
— everything.  He  was  quite  naked.  And  they  mocked 
him  like  that,  pricking  him  with  their  swords.  .  .  . 
They  put  him  into  darkness  ...  a  filthy  place,  no  sani- 
tation, nothing.  .  .  .  They  twisted  his  arms.  They 
made  him  imagine  things,  horrible  things.  When  he 
had  dysentery  they  just  left  him.  .  .  .  They  made  him 
drink  .  .  .  forced  it  down  his  throat.  .  .  ." 

How  much  of  it  was  true?  Very  little,  I  daresay. 
Even  as  the  old  man  told  it  details  gathered  and  piled 
up.  "He  had  always  been  such  a  good  boy.  Very 
gentle  and  quiet — never  any  trouble  at  school.  ...  I 
was  hoping  that  he  would  be  ordained,  as  you  know, 
Dahlia.  He  always  loved  life  .  .  .  one  of  the  happiest 
boys.  What  did  they  do  it  for  ?  He  hadn't  done  them 
any  harm.  They  must  have  made  him  very  angry  for 
him  to  say  what  he  did — and  he  didn't  say  very  much, 
.  .  .  And  he  was  all  alone.  He  hadn't  any  of  his 
friends  with  him.  And  they  kept  his  parcels  and 
letters  from  him.  I'd  just  sent  him  one  or  two  little 
things.  .  .  ." 

This,  more  than  anything  else,  distressed  the  old  man : 
that  they'd  kept  the  letters  from  the  boy.  It  was  the 
loneliness  that  seemed  to  him  the  most  horrible  of  all. 

"He  had  always  hated  to  be  alone.     Even  as  a  very 


MISS  MORGANHURST  81 

little  boy  he  didn't  like  to  be  left  in  the  dark.  He 
used  to  beg  us.  .  .  .  Niglit-lights,  we  always  left  nigbt- 
ligbts  in  bis  room.  .  .  .  But  what  bad  be  done? 
iN'otbing.  He  bad  never  been  a  bad  boy.  There  was 
nothing  to  punish  him  for." 

The  'bid  man  didn't  cry.  He  sniffed  and  rubbed 
his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  once  he  brought 
out  a  dirty  handkerchief.  The  thing  that  he  couldn't 
understand  was  why  this  had  happened  to  the  boy  at 
all.  Also  he  was  persecuted  by  the  thought  that  there 
was  something  still  that  he  could  do.  He  didn't  know 
what  it  might  be,  but  there  must  be  something.  He 
had  no  vindictiveness.  He  didn't  want  revenge.  He 
didn't  blame  the  Germans.  He  didn't  blame  anvbodv. 
He  only  felt  that  he  should  "make  it  up  to  his  boy" 
somehow.  '^You  know,  Dahlia,"  he  said,  "there  were 
times  when  one  was  irritated  by  the  boy.  I  haven't 
a  very  equable  temper.  'No,  I  never  have  had.  I  used 
to  have  my  headaches,  and  he  was  noisy  sometimes. 
And  I'm  afraid  I  spoke  sharply.  I'm  sorry  enough 
for  it  now — indeed,  I  am.  Oh,  yes!  But,  of  course, 
one  didn't  know  at  the  time.  .  .  ." 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  horrors.  They  would  not 
leave  him,  they  buzzed  about  his  brain  like  flies.  The 
darkness,  the  smell  .  .  .  the  smell,  the  filth,  the  dark- 
ness. And  then  the  end!  He  could  not  forget  that. 
What  the  boy  must  have  suffered  to  come  to  that !  Such 
a  happy  boy !  .  .  .  Why  had  it  happened  ?  And  what 
was  to  be  done  now  ? 

He  stopped  at  last  and  said  that  he  must  go  and  catch 
his  train.     He  was  glad  to  have  talked  about  it.     It  had 


82  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

done  him  good.  It  was  kindly  of  DaUia  to  listen  to 
him.  He  hoped  that  Dahlia  would  come  down  one 
day  and  see  him  at  Little  Roseberry.  It  wasn't  much 
that  he  could  offer  her.  It  was  a  quiet  little  place, 
and  he  was  alone,  but  he  would  be  glad  to  see  her.  He 
kissed  her,  gave  her  a  dim  bewildered  smile,  and  went. 

Soon  after  his  departure  Mrs.  Mellish  arrived.  It  is 
significant  of  Mrs.  Mellish's  general  egotism  and  igno- 
rance that  she  perceived  nothing  odd  in  Miss  Morgan- 
hurst  !  Just  the  same  as  she  always  was.  They  talked 
bridge  the  next  afternoon.  Bridge.  Eour  women. 
What  about  ISTorah  Pope?  Poor  player.  That's  the 
worst  of  it.  Doesn't  see  properly  and  won't  wear  glases. 
Simply  conceit.  But  still,  who  else  is  there?  To- 
morrow afternoon.  Very  difficult.  Mrs.  Mellish  ad- 
mits that  on  that  particular  day  she  was  preoccupied 
about  a  dress  that  she  couldn't  get  back  from  the  dress- 
makers. These  days.  What  has  come  to  the  working- 
classes  ?  They  don't  care.  They  don't  caee.  Money 
simply  of  no  importance  to  them.  That's  the  strange 
thing.  In  the  old  days  you  could  have  done  simply 
everything  by  offering  them  a  little  more.  .  .  .  But 
not  now.  Oh,  dear  no!  .  .  .  She  admits  that  she  was 
preoccupied  about  the  dress,  and  wasn't  noticing  Dahlia 
Morganhurst  as  she  might  have  done.  She  saw  nothing 
odd.  It's  my  belief  that  she'll  see  nothing  odd  at  the 
last  trump.     She  went  away. 

Agatha  is  the  other  witness.  After  Mrs.  Mellish's 
departure  she  came  in  to  her  mistress.  The  only  thing 
that  she  remarked  about  her  was  that  "she  was  very 
quiet."     Tired,  I  supposed,  after  talking  to  that  Mrs. 


MISS  MORGAjSTHUEST  83 

Mellisli.     And  then  her  old  brother  and  all.     Enough 
to  upset  anyone. 

Miss  Morganhurst  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  gaudy  sofa 
looking  in  front  of  her.  "When  Agatha  came  in  she 
said  that  she  "would  not  dress  just  yet.  Agatha  had 
better'take  the  dog  out  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  The 
maid  wondered  at  that  because  that  was  a  thing  that  she 
was  never  allowed  to  do.  She  hated  the  animal.  How- 
ever, she  pushed  its  monstrous  little  head  inside  its 
absurd  little  muzzle,  put  on  her  hat  and  went  out. 

I  don't  know  what  Miss  Morganhurst  thought  about 
during  that  quarter  of  an  hour,  but  when  at  the  end  of 
that  time  Agatha  returned,  scared  out  of  her  life  with 
the  dog  dead  in  her  arms,  the  old  lady  was  sitting  in  the 
same  spot  as  before.  She  can't  have  moved.  She  must 
have  been  fighting,  I  fancy,  against  the  last  barrier — 
the  last  barrier  that  kept  all  the  wild  beasts  back  from 
leaping  on  her  imagination. 

Well,  that  slaughtered  morsel  of  skin  and  bone  fin- 
ished it.  The  slaughtering  had  been  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world.  Agatha  had  put  the  creature  on  the 
pavement  for  a  moment  and  turned  to  look  in  a  shop 
window.  Some  dog  from  the  other  side  of  the  street 
had  enticed  the  trembling  object.  It  had  started  tot- 
tering across,  uttering  tiny  snorts  of  sensual  excitement 
behind  its  absurd  muzzle.  A  Eolls-Eoyce  had  done 
the  rest.  It  had  suffered  very  little  damage,  and  laid 
out  on  Miss  Morganhurst's  red  lacquer  table,  it  really 
looked  finer  than  it  had  ever  done.  Agatha,  of  course, 
was  terrified.  She  knew  better  than  anyone  how  deeply 
her  mistress  had  loved  the  poor  trembling  image.     Sob- 


84  THE  THIRTEE]^  TRAVELLERS 

bing,  she  explained.  She  was  really  touched,  I  think 
— quite  truly  touched  for  half  a  minute.  Then,  when 
she  saw  how  quietly  Miss  Morganliurst  took  it,  she  re- 
gained her  courage.  Miss  Morganhurst  said  nothing 
but  "Yes."  Agatha  regained,  with  her  courage,  her 
volubility.  "Words  poured  forth.  She  could  needs  tell 
madame  how  deeply,  deeply  she  regTetted  her  careless- 
ness. She  would  kill  herself  for  her  carelessness  if 
madame  preferred  that.  How  she  could!  Madame 
might  do  with  her  what  she  wished.  .  .  . 

But  all  that  Miss  Morganhurst  said  was  "Yes." 
Miss  Morganhurst  went  into  her  bedroom  to  dress  for 
dinner,  and  Tiny-Tee  was  left,  at  full  length  in  all  her 
glory,  trembling  no  longer,  upon  the  red  lacquer  table. 

Agatha  went  downstairs  for  something,  spoke  to 
Fanny,  the  portress,  and  returned.  Outside  the  bed- 
room door,  which  was  ajar,  she  heard  a  strange  sound, 
like  someone  cracking  nuts,  she  described  it  afterwards. 
She  went  in.  Miss  Morganhurst,  her  thin  grey  hair 
about  her  neck,  clad  only  in  her  chemise,  was  sitting 
on  her  bed  swinging  her  bare  legs.  At  sight  of  Agatha 
she  screeched  like  a  parrot.  As  Agatha  approached 
she  sprang  off  the  bed  and  advanced  at  her — her  back 
bent,  her  fingers  bent  talon-wise.  A  stream  of  words 
poured  from  her  lips.  Every  horror,  every  indecency, 
every  violation  of  truth  and  honour  that  the  war  had 
revealed  through  the  press,  through  books,  through  let- 
ters, seemed  to  have  lodged  in  that  brain.  Every  mur- 
der, every  rape,  every  slaughter  of  innocent  children, 
every  violation  of  girls  and  old  women — they  were  all 
there.     She  stopped   close  to   x\gatha   and   the  words 


MISS  MORGANHURST  85 

streamed  out.  At  tlie  end  of  every  sentence,  with  a  little 
sigh,  she  whispered — "I  was  there !  I  was  there !  .  .  . 
I've  seen  it." 

Agatha,  frozen  with  horror,  remained;  then,  action 
coming  back  to  her,  she  fled — Miss  Morganhurst  pur- 
sued her,  her  bare  feet  pattering  on  the  carpet.  She 
called  Agatha  by  the  name  of  some  obscure  German 
captain. 

Agatha  found  a  doctor.  When  they  returned  Miss 
Morganhurst  was  lying  on  her  face  on  the  floor  in  the 
dai'kness,  hiding  from  what  she  saw.  "I  was  there, 
you  know,"  she  whispered  to  the  doctor  as  he  put  her 
to  bed. 

She  died  next  day.  Perhaps,  after  all,  many  people 
have  felt  the  war  more  than  one  has  supposed.  .  .  . 


PETER  WESTCOTT 

WESTCOTT'S  astonishment  when  Edmund  Eob- 
sart  offered  to  lend  his  chambers  rent  free  for 
two  months  was  only  equalled  by  his  amazement  when 
he  discovered  himself  accepting  that  offer.  Had  you 
told  him  a  week  before  that  within  seven  days  he  would 
be  sleeping  in  Eobsart's  sumptuous  bed  closed  in  by  the 
rich  sanctities  of  Eobsart's  sumptuous  flat,  he  would 
have  looked  at  you  with  that  cool  contempt  that  was 
one  of  Westcott's  worst  features ;  for  Westcott  in  those 
days  was  an  arrogant  man — arrogant  through  disgust 
of  himself  and  disgust  of  the  world — two  very  poor 
reasons  for  arrogance. 

This  was  the  way  of  his  accepting  Robsart's  offer. 
He  had  been  demobilised  at  the  beginning  of  March  and 
had  realised,  with  a  sudden  surprise  that  seemed  only  to 
confirm  his  arrogance,  that  he  had  no  one  to  go  and 
see,  no  work  to  do,  no  place  that  needed  him,  no  place 
that  he  needed.  He  took  a  bedroom  in  a  dirty  little 
street  off  the  Strand.  He  knew  that  there  were  two 
men  whom  he  should  look  up,  Maradick  and  Galleon. 
He  swore  to  himself  that  he  would  die  before  he  saw 
either  of  them.  Then,  in  the  Strand,  he  met  Lester, 
a  man  whom  he  had  known  in  his  old  literaiy  days 
before  the  war.     Twenty  years  ago  Lester  had  been  a 

86 


PETER  WESTCOTT  87 

man  of  mucli  promise,  and  his  novel  To  Paradise  had 
been  read  by  everyone  who  wanted  a  short  road  to  cul- 
ture. Now  the  war  had  definitely  dated  him  and  he 
seemed  to  belong  to  the  Yelloiu  Book  and  the  Bodley 
Head  and  all  those  days  when  names  were  so  much  more 
important  than  performance,  and  a  cover  with  a  Beards- 
ley  drawing  on  it  hid  a  multitude  of  amateurs. 

Westcott  did  not  mind  whether  or  no  Lester  were 
dated ;  he  was,  for  the  matter  of  that,  himself  dated.  It 
was  long  indeed  since  anyone  had  mentioned  Reuben 
Hallard,  or  The  Vines,  or  The  Stone  House.  It  seemed 
many  ages  since  he  himself  had  thought  of  them.  He 
liked  Lester,  and  being  a  man  who,  in  spite  of  his  lone- 
liness and  arrogance,  responded  at  once  to  kindliness, 
he  accepted  Lester's  invitation  to  dinner.  He  dug  up 
an  old  dinner  jacket  that  was  tight  and  unduly  stretched 
across  his  broad  shouLders  and  went  to  dinner  in  the 
Cromwell  Road. 

Days  of  failure  and  disappointment  had  not  suited 
Mrs.  Lester,  who  had  always  lived  for  excitement  and 
good  society,  and  found  neitlier  in  the  Cromwell  Road. 
There  was  only  one  other  guest  beside  Westcott,  and 
that  was  Edmund  Robsart,  the  most  successful  of  all 
modern  novelists.  For  many  years  Robsart's  name  had 
been  a  synonym  for  success.  "It  must  be,"  thought 
Westcott,  looking  at  the  man's  red  face  and  superb 
chest  and  portly  stomach,  "at  least  thirty  years  since 
you  published  The  Prime  Minister's  Daughter  and  hit 
the  nail  at  the  very  first  time.  What  a  loathsome  fel- 
low you  are,  what  harm  you've  done  to  literature,  and 
what  a  gorgeous  time  you  must  have  had !" 


88  THE  THIETEE:N'  TEAVELLEES 

And  the  very  first  thing  that  Eohsart  said  was: 
"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you're  Westcott,  the 
author  of  Reuben  Hallard!" 

"iSTow  you're  a  fool  to  be  touched  by  that,"  Westcott 
said  to  himself.  But  he  was  astonished,  nevertheless 
— touched,  it  seemed,  not  so  much  for  himself  as  in  a 
kind  of  protective  way  for  that  poor  little  firstling  who 
had  been  both  begotten  and  produced  in  a  London  board- 
ing-house and  had  held  in  his  little  hands  so  much 
promise,  so  many  hopes,  so  much  pride  and  ambition. 

"Westcott  was  touched;  he  did  not  resent  Eobsart's 
fatherly,  patronising  air  as  of  one  who  held  always  in  his 
chubby,  gouty  fist  the  golden  keys  to  Paradise.  He 
drank  Lester's  wine  and  laughed  at  Eobsart's  anec- 
dotes and  was  sympathetic  to  Mrs.  Lester's  complaints ; 
he,  Peter  Westcott,  who  throughout  the  war  had  been 
held  to  be  cold,  conceited,  overbearing,  the  most  un- 
popular officer  in  his  regiment.  At  the  end  of  the  eve- 
ning Eobsart  asked  him  to  come  to  lunch.  "I  live  in 
Duke  Street,  Hortons.  Everyone  knows  Hortons." 
He  gave  him  his  number.  "Tuesday,  1.30.  Glad  to 
see  vou." 

Westcott  cursed  himself  for  a  fool  when  he  went  back 
to  his  Strand  lodging.  What  did  he  want  with  men  of 
Eobsart's  kidnev  ?  Had  he  not  been  laughina;  and 
mocking  at  Eobsart  for  years  ?  Had  he  not  taken  Eob- 
sart's success  as  a  sign  of  the  contemptible  character  of 
the  British  Public;  when  men  like  Galleon  and  Lester 
had  been  barely  able  to  live  by  their  pens  and  Eobsart 
rolled  in  money — rolled  in  money  earned  by  tawdry 


PETER  WESTCOTT  89 

fustian  sentimentality  like  The  Kings  of  the  Earth  and 
Love  Laughs  at  Locksmiths. 

N^evertheless,  he  went  and  brushed  his  old  blue  suit 
and  rolled  up  to  Duke  Street,  looking,  as  he  always  did, 
like  an  able-bodied  seaman  on  leave.  Eobsart's  flat 
was  vei-y  much  what  he  had  expected  it  to  be — quite 
sumptuous  and  quite  lifeless.  There  was  a  little  dining- 
room  off  what  Eobsart  called  the  Library.  This  little 
dining-room  had  nothing  in  it  save  a  round,  shining 
gate-legged  table  with  a  glass  top  to  it,  a  red  Persian 
rug  that  must  have  been  priceless,  a  Rodin  bust  of  an 
evil-looking  old  woman  who  stuck  her  tongue  out,  and  a 
Gauguin  that  looked  to  Westcott  like  a  red  apple  and 
a  banana,  but  was,  in  reality,  a  native  woman  by  the 
seashore.  In  the  Library  there  were  wonderful  books, 
the  walls  being  completely  covered  by  them. 

"Most  of  them  first  or  rare  editions,"  said  Robsart 
carelessly.  Behind  glass  near  the  window  were  the 
books  that  he  had  himself  written,  all  the  different 
editions,  the  translations,  the  cheap  "Shillings"  and 
"Two  Shillings,"  the  strange  Swedish  and  J^orwegian 
and  Russian  copies  with  their  paper  backs,  the  row 
of  "Tauchnitz,"  and  then  all  the  American  editions 
with  their  solemn,  heavy  bindings.  Then  there  were 
the  manuscripts  of  the  novels,  all  bound  beautifully  in 
red  morocco,  and  in  the  bottom  shelf  the  books  with  all 
the  newspaper  cuttings  dating,  as  Westcott  to  his  amaze- 
ment saw,  from  1884.  Thirty-five  years,  and  all  this 
sumptuousness  as  a  result!  IsTevertheless  the  books 
round   the   room    looked    dead,    dead,    dead.      "Kever 


90  THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

touclied,"  thouglit  Peter,  "except  to  show  them  to  poor 
humble  failures  like  myself." 

Half  an  hour's  conversation  was  quite  enough  to  strip 
Peter  of  anv  illusions  he  mav  have  had  about  Robsart's 
natural  simplicity  of  heart.  He  had  invited  "Westcott 
there  because  he  wanted  a  little  praise  from  ''the 
Younger  Generation" — "needed"  rather  than  "wanted" 
was  perhaps  the  right  word.  TVestcott  was  hardly  the 
ideal  victim,  because  he  was  over  forty,  and  an  un- 
doubted failure;  nevertheless,  at  Lester's  he  had  ap- 
peared amiable  and  kindly — a  little  encouragement  and 
he  would  say  something  pleasant. 

Then  Robsart  would  have  soothed  that  tiresome,  bit- 
ing, bitter  irritation  that  had  beset  him  of  late,  bom  he 
knew  not  where,  a  suggestion  carried  on  the  wind  that 
"he  was  behind  the  times,"  that  his  books  "no  longer 
sold,"  that  no  young  man  or  woman  "thought  of  him 
with  ami:hing  but  contempt."  These  things  had  not 
been  said  directly  to  him ;  he  had  not  even  read  them  in 
the  papers.  There  were  certain  critical  journals  that 
had,  of  course,  since  the  beginning  of  his  career  given 
him  nothing  but  abuse  if  they  noticed  him  at  all.  They 
now  treated  him  to  silence.  He  did  not  expect  them 
to  alter.  But  his  sales  voere  falling;  even  the  critics 
who  had  supported  him  through  all  weathers  were  com- 
plaining a  little  now  of  monotony  of  subject,  of  repeti- 
iton  of  idea.  "Damn  it  all,  what  can  you  do  but  repeat 
after  thirty  books  ?"  Sometimes  he  wondered  whether 
he  would  not  stop  and  "rest  on  his  laurels."  But  that 
meant  a  diminution  of  income ;  he  had  always  lived  well 
and  spent  every  penny  as  it  came  along.     !Mor«)ver, 


PETER  WESTCOTT  91 

now  was  the  worst  moment  to  choose,  witli  the  income- 
tax  at  what  it  was  and  food  and  clothes  and  everything 
'  else  at  double  its  natural  price ! 

As  a  matter  of  truth,  he  had  been  looking  forward 
during  the  last  two  years  to  "after  the  war."  .  .  .  That 
was  the  time  when  he  was  going  to  start  again.  Get 
this  war  behind  one  and  he  would  break  out  in  an  en- 
tirely new  place — "begin  all  over  again" — show  all 
those  young  fellows  that  all  their  so-called  modernity  was 
nothing  but  a  new  trick  or  two  for  covering  up  the  same 
old  thing.  He  could  do  it  as  well  as  they.  "Write  in 
suspensive  dots  and  dashes,  mention  all  the  parts  of  the 
human  body  in  full,  count  every  tick  of  the  clock,  and 
call  your  book  "Disintegi-ation,"  or  "Dead  Moons,"  or 
"Green  Queens." 

Eobsart  liked  himself  in  these  moods,  and  during 
luncheon  he  amiably  wandered  along  in  this  direction, 
plucking  the  flowers  of  his  wit  as  he  went  and  flinging 
them  into  Westcott's  lap. 

Peter  grew  ever  more  and  more  silent.  He  hated 
Robsart.  That  ghastly  preoccupation  with  his  own  lit- 
tle affairs,  the  self-patting  and  self-applause  over  the 
little  successes  that  he  had  won,  above  all,  that  blending 
of  all  the  horror  and  tragedy  of  that  great  nightmare 
of  a  war  to  fit  into  the  pattern  of  that  mean,  self- 
gratifying  little  life — these  things  were  horrible.  But, 
strangely,  with  the  ever-growing  disgTist  of  Robsart 
and  his  slightly  disturbed  self-complacency  came  an 
evil  longing  in  Peter's  breast  for  some  of  the  comfort 
and  luxury  that  Robsart's  life  represented.  Ever  since 
that  day,  now  so  many  years  ago,  when  his  wife  had 


92  THE  THIKTEEN  TKAVELLERS 

run  away  with  liis  best  friend,  lie  had  known,  it  seemed, 
no  peace,  no  quiet,  no  tranquillity.  It  was  not  security 
that  he  needed,  but  rather  a  pause  in  the  battle  of  the 
spiritual  elements  that  seemed  to  be  for  ever  beating 
at  his  ears  and  driving  him  staggering  from  post  to  post. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  war  he  had  often  thought, 
he  must  have  succumbed,  before  now.  Final  defeat,  at 
any  rate,  meant  rest.  He  had  not  succumbed.  These 
years  in  Gallipoli  and  France  had  saved  him.  But  he, 
in  those  desolate,  death-ridden  places  had  again  and 
again  said  to  himself,  even  as  Robsart,  safe  in  Hortons, 
had  said:  "After  the  war.  .  .  .  After  the  war.  .  .  ." 
After  the  war  Peter  would  build  up  his  life  again.  But 
first,  even  a  month's  rest — somewhere  that  was  not  dirty 
and  cheap  and  ill-smelling.  Somewhere  with  good 
food  and  kind  looks.  .  .  .  Then  he  smiled  as  he  thought 
of  Maradick  and  Galleon,  his  two  friends,  who  could 
both  give  him  those  things.  'No,  he  wanted  also  free- 
dom. 

Thus,  to  his  amazement,  at  the  end  of  luncheon,  when 
he  was  feeling  as  though  he  could  not  bear  the  sound  of 
Robsart's  rich,  self-satisfied  voice  a  moment  longer,  the 
man  made  his  proposal.  He  was  going  to  Scotland  for 
two  months.  Would  Westcott  like  to  take  the  flat, 
free  of  rent,  of  course?  It  was  at  his  disposal.  He 
need  not  have  meals  there  unless  he  wished. 

Something  in  Westcott's  spirit  had  attracted  Rob- 
sart. Westcott  had  not  given  him  the  praise  he  had 
needed;  but  now  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that. 
The  man  who  sat  opposite  to  him  with  the  thin  face, 
the  black,  closely  cropped  hair,  thin  above  his  fore- 


PETER  WESTCOTT  93 

head,  grey  above  the  temples,  with  the  broad  shoulders, 
the  hard,  thick-set  figure,  the  grave  eyes,  the  nervous, 
■  restless  fingers,  the  man  who,  in  spite  of  his  forty  years, 
seemed  still  in  some  strange  way  a  boy — that  man  had 
been  through  fire  and  tribulation  such  as  Robsart  would 
never  know.  Robsart  was  not  a  bad  man,  nor  an 
unkindly;  success  had  been  the  worst  thing  that  could 
have  happened  to  his  soul.  He  put  his  hand  on  West- 
cott's  shoulder:  ''You  stay  here  and  have  a  rest  for  a 
bit.  Do  just  as  you  like.  Chuck  my  things  about. 
Smash  the  Rodin  if  it  amuses  you."     Peter  accepted. 

When  he  moved,  with  his  few  possessions,  into  the 
grand  place,  he  found  it  less  alarming  than  he  had 
expected.  Hortons  itself  was  anything  but  alarming. 
In  the  fii-st  place,  there  was  the  nicest  girl  in  the  world, 
Fanny,  who  was  portress  downstairs.  She  made  one 
happy  at  once.  Then  the  valet,  Albert,  or  Albert 
Edward,  as  he  seemed  to  prefer  to  be  called,  was  the 
kind  of  man  understood  in  a  moment  by  Peter.  They 
were  friends  in  three  minutes.  Albert  Edward  had 
his  eye  on  Fanny,  and  was  going  to  propose  one  of  these 
days.     Wouldn't  they  make  a  jolly  pair  ? 

Once  or  twice  the  great  Mr.  Nix  himself,  the  man- 
ager of  the  flats,  came  in  to  see  how  Peter  was  faring. 
He  seemed  to  have  an  exalted  idea  of  Peter  because  he 
was  "Robsart's  friend."  Robsart  was  a  very  great  man 
in  Mr.  Nix's  eyes. 

"But  I'm  not  his  friend,"  Peter  said.  "Yoti  must 
have  been,"  Mr.  Nix  said,  "for  him  to  let  you  have  his 
flat  like  that.     I've  never  known  him  to  do  that  before." 

In  three  days  Peter  was  happy;   in  another  three 


94  THE  THIRTEElSr  TRAVELLERS 

days  he  began  to  be  strangled.  There  were  too  many 
things  in  the  flat — beautiful  things,  costly  things.  Litr 
tle  golden  trifles,  precious  china,  pictures  worth  a  for- 
tune, first  editions  scattered  about  as  though  they  were 
nothing.     "Too  full,  too  full,  too  full." 

Peter  couldn't  sleep.  He  pushed  on  all  the  lights, 
and  pushed  them  all  off  again.  He  got  up,  and  in  his 
old,  shabby,  patched  pyjamas  walked  the  length  of  the 
flat  up  and  down,  up  and  down.  The  Brahmin  gods 
in  the  gold  temple  stared  at  him  impassively.  The 
Rodin  old  woman  leered. 

"Another  two  days  and  I'm  done  with  this  place," 
he  thought.  Then  Murdoch  Temple  came  to  see  him. 
Westcott  had  known  Temple  before  the  war;  he  had 
not  seen  him  for  five  years.  Temple  had  not  altered: 
there  was  the  same  slight,  delicate  body,  pale,  discon- 
tented face,  jet-black  hair,  long,  nervous  and  conceited 
hands,  shabby  clothes  too  tight  for  the  body  and  most 
characteristic  of  all,  a  melancholy  and  supercilious  curl 
to  his  upper  lip.  Temple  was  supercilious  by  nature 
and  melancholy  by  profession.  From  the  very  begin- 
ning it  had  seemed  that  he  was  destined  to  be  a  genius, 
and  although  after  fifteen  years  of  anticipation  the 
fulfilment  of  that  destiny  was  still  postponed,  no  one 
could  doubt,  least  of  all  Temple  himself,  that  the  day 
of  recognition  was  approaching.  At  Oxford  it  had 
seemed  that  there  was  nothing  that  he  could  not  do; 
in  actual  fact  he  had  since  then  read  much  French  and 
some  Russian  (in  translation,  of  course),  edited  two  lit- 
tle papers,  strangled  by  an  unsympathetic  public  almost 
at  birth,  produced  a  novel,  a  poem,  and  a  book  of  criti- 


PETER  WESTCOTT  95 

cism.  An  imliappy  chill  had  hung  over  all  these 
things.  The  war,  in  whose  progi-ess  poor  health  had 
"forbidden  him  to  take  a  very  active  part,  had  made  of 
him  a  pessimist  and  pacifist;  but  even  here  a  certain 
temperamental  weakness  had  forbidden  him  to  be  too 
ardent."  He  was  peevish  rather  than  indignant,  petulant 
rather  than  angry,  unkind,  rather  than  cruel,  mali- 
cious rather  than  unjust,  and,  undoubtedly,  a  little 
sycophantic. 

He  had  a  brain,  but  he  had  always  used  it  for 
the  fostering  of  discontent.  He  did  care,  with  more 
warmth  than  one  would  have  supposed  possible,  for  lit- 
erature, but  everything  in  it  must  be  new,  and  strange, 
and  unsuccessful.  Success  was,  to  him,  the  most  ter- 
rible of  all  things,  unless  he  himself  were  to  attain  it. 

That,  as  things  now  went,  seemed  unlikely.  During 
the  last  two  years  he  and  his  friends  had  been  anticipat- 
ing all  that  they  were  going  to  do  "after  the  war.  .  .  ." 
There  was  to  be  a  new  literature,  a  new  poetry,  a  new 
novel,  a  new  criticism;  and  all  these  were  to  be  built 
up  by  Temple  and  company.  "Thank  God,  the  war's 
saved  us  from  the  old  mess  we  were  in.  ISTo  more 
Robsarts  and  Manisbys  for  us  !     ISTow  we  shall  see !" 

Peter  had  heard  vague  rumours  of  the  things 
these  young  men  were  going  to  do.  He  had  not  been 
greatly  interested.  He  was  outside  their  generation, 
and  his  own  ambitions  were  long  deadened  by  his  own 
self-contempt.  !N'evertheless,  on  this  particular  morn- 
ing, he  was  glad  to  see  Temple.  There  was  no  question 
but  that  he  made  as  eifective  a  contrast  with  Robsart 
as  one  could  find. 


96  THE  THIETEEN  TRAVELLEES 

Temple  was  extremely  cordial.  At  the  same  time,  liQ 
was  frankly  surprised  to  find  Peter  there. 

"How  did  you  track  me?"  asked  Peter. 

'^obsart  told  Maradick  in  Edinburgh,  Meredith  was 
writing  to  me.     How  are  you  after  all  this  time  ?" 

"AH  right,"  said  Peter,  smiling.  The  conversation 
then  was  literary,  and  Temple  explained  "how  things 
were."  Things  were  very  bad.  He  used  the  glories 
of  Itobsart's  rooms  as  an  illustration  of  his  pui'pose. 
He  waved  his  hands  about.  "Look  at  these  things," 
he  seemed  to  say.  "At  these  temples  of  gold,  this  china 
of  great  price,  these  pictures,  and  then  look  at  me. 
Here  is  the  contrast  between  true  and  false  art." 

"We  want  to  get  rid,"  he  explained  to  Peter,  "of 
all  these  false  valuations.  This  wretched  war  has 
shown  us  at  least  one  thing — the  difference  between  the 
true  and  the  false.  The  world  is  in  pieces.  It  is  for 
na  to  build  it  up  again." 

"And  how  are  you  going  to  do  it  ?"  asked  Peter. 

Well,  it  seemed  that  Temple's  prospects  were  espe- 
cially bright  just  then.  It  happened  that  Mr.  Dibden, 
the  original  inventor  of  "Dibden's  Blue  Pills,"  was 
anxious  to  "dabble  in  art"  He  was  ready  to  put  quite 
a  little  of  his  "blue  pill"  money  behind  a  new  critical 
paper,  and  the  editor  of  this  paper  was  to  be  Templa 

"Of  course,"  said  Temple.  "I'm  not  going  to  agree 
to  it  unless  he  guarantees  us  at  least  five  years'  run.  A 
paper  of  the  sort  that  I  have  in  mind  always  takes 
some  time  to  make  its  impression.  In  five  years  the 
world  at  least  will  be  able  to  see  what  we  are  made  of. 
I've  no  feai's." 


PETER  WESTCOTT  97 

Peter,  who  was  more  ingenuous  than  he  knew,  was 
caught  by  the  rather  wistful  eagerness  in  Temple's  voice. 

"This  fellow  really  does  care,"  he  thought. 

*^e  want  you  to  come  in  with  us,"  said  Temple. 
"Of  course,  we  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  fellows 

like  D-^- —  and  W •  and  M ;  men  who've  simply 

made  successes  by  rotten  work.  'No !  But  I  flatter  my- 
self that  there  will  be  no  one  of  our  generation  of  any 
merit  who  won't  join  us.    You  must  be  one." 

"Vm.  too  old,"  said  Peter,  "for  your  young  lot." 

"Too  old!"  cried  Temple.  "Rot!  Of  course,  it's  a 
long  time  since  The  Vineo,  but  all  the  better.     You'll 

be  the  fresher  for  the  pause,     l^ot  like  M and 

AV ,  who  turn  out  novels  twice  a  year  as  though  they 

were  sausages.  Besides,  you've  been  in  the  war. 
You've  seen  at  first  hand  what  it  is.  E^one  of  these 
ghastly  high  spirits  about  you !  You'll  have  the  right 
pessimistic  outlook." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  shall,"  said  Peter,  laughing. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  said  Temple  confidently.  "I'm 
delighted  you'll  join  us.  And  I'll  be  able  to  pay  well, 
too.     Old  Dibden's  ready  to  stump  up  any  amount" 

"That's  a  good  thing,"  said  Peter. 

He  remembered  that  Temple  had  not,  with  the  best 
wish  in  the  world,  been  always  able  in  the  past  to  fulfil 
all  his  promises.  In  short,  Peter  was  touched  and  even 
excited.  It  was  so  long  since  anyone  had  come  to  him 
or  wanted  him.  Then  Temple  had  caught  him  at  th.e 
right  moment.  He  was  out  of  a  job;  Robsart's  flat 
was  suffocating  him ;  he  himself  was  feeling  something 
of  this  new  air  that  was  blowing  through  the  world. 


98  THE  THIKTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

He  wondered  whether  after  all  it  might  not  be  that 
Temple  and  his  friends  would  be  given  the  power. 
They  had  youth,  energy,  a  freedom  from  tradition.  .  .  . 

He  promised  Temple  that  he  would  come  to  tea  next 
day,  and  see  some  of  his  friends. 

"The  paper's  to  be  called  the  Blue  Moon"  said  Tem- 
ple.    "To-morrow,  then,  at  five." 

Peter  found  himself  at  five  next  day  in  a  small  room 
off  Chanceiy  Lane.  Temple  met  him  at  the  door, 
gi'eeted  him  with  that  rather  eager  and  timid  air  that 
was  especially  his,  introduced  him  to  a  young  man  on 
a  green  sofa,  and  left  him. 

Peter  was  rather  amused  at  his  own  excitement.  He 
looked  about  him  with  eagerness.  Here,  at  any  rate, 
was  a  fine  contrast  to  Robsart.  'No  gold  gods  and 
precious  Rodins  in  this  place.  The  room  was  bare 
to  shabbiness.  The  only  picture  on  the  ugly  wall- 
paper was  a  copy  of  some  post-impressionist  picture 
stuck  on  to  the  paper  with  a  pin. 

It  was  a  warm  spring  day,  and  the  room  was  very 
close.  Some  half  a  dozen  men  and  two  girls  were 
present;  very  much  bad  tobacco  was  being  smoked. 
Somewhere  near  the  untidy  fire-place  was  a  table  with 
tea  on  it.  "Perhaps,"  thought  Peter,  "these  are  the 
men  who  will  make  the  new  world.  .  .  .  At  any  rate, 
no  false  prosperity  here.  These  men  mean  what  they 
say."  Looking  about  him,  the  first  thing  that  he  dis- 
covered was  a  strange  family  likeness  that  there  seemed 
to  be  amongst  the  men.  They  all  wore  old,  shabby,  ill- 
fitting  clothes.  No  hair  was  brushed,  no  collars  were 
clean,  all  boots  were  dusty.     "That's  all  right,"  thought 


PETER  WESTCOTT  99 

Peter.     ''There's  no  time  to  waste  thinking  about  clothes 
these  days." 

All  the  same  he  did  like  cleanliness,  and  what  dis- 
tressed him  was  that  all  the  young  men  looked  unwell. 
One  of  them,  indeed,  was  fat.  But  it  was  an  unhealthy 
stoutne'ss,  pale,  blotchy,  pimpled.  Complexions  were 
sallow,  bodies  undeveloped  and  uncared-for.  It  was 
not  that  they  looked  ill-fed — simply  tliat  they  seemed 
to  have  been  living  in  close  atmospheres  and  taking  no 
exercise.  .  .  .  Listening  then  to  the  talk  he  discovered 
that  the  tone  of  the  voices  was  strangely  the  same. 
It  was  as  though  one  man  were  speaking,  as  though  the 
different  bodies  were  vehicles  for  the  same  voice.  The 
high,  querulous,  faint,  scornful  voice  ran  on.  It 
seemed  as  though,  did  it  cease,  the  room  would  cease 
with  it — the  room,  the  sofa,  the  wall-paper,  the  tea- 
table  cease  with  it,  and  vanish.  One  of  the  pale  young 
men  was  on  the  sofa  stroking  a  tiny,  ragged  moustache 
with  his  rather  dirty  fingers.  He  raised  sad,  heavy  eyes 
to  Peter's  face,  then,  with  a  kind  of  spiritual  shudder 
as  though  he  did  not  like  what  he  had  seen  there, 
dropped  them. 

''It's  rather  close  in  here,  isn't  it?"  said  Peter  at 
last. 

"Maybe,"  said  the  young  man.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  young  women,  directed  apparently  by 
Temple,  came  over  to  Peter.  She  sat  down  on  the 
sofa  and  began  eagerly  to  talk  to  him.  She  said  how 
glad  she  was  that  he  was  going  to  join  them.  Al- 
though she  spoke  eagerly,  her  voice  was  tired,  with  a 
kind  of  angry,  defiant  ring  in  it.     She  spoke  so  rapidly 


100  '      THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLEES 

that  Peter  had  difficulty  in  following  her.  He  asked 
who  the  men  in  the  room  were. 

"That's  Somers,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  stout  man, 
"Hacket  Somers.  Of  course,  you  know  his  work  ?  I've 
got  his  new  poem  here.  Like  to  see  it?  We  shall 
have  it  in  the  first  numher  of  the  Blue  Moon." 

She  handed  Peter  a  page  of  typed  manuscript.  He 
read  it  eagerly.  Here,  then,  was  the  new  literature.  It 
was  apparently  a  poem.  It  was  headed  "Wild  West 
— ^Remittance  Man." 

The  first  three  verses  were  as  follows: 

"Schlemihl  no  mother  weep  for 
dooTned  for  a  certain  time — 

Rye  whisJcy — a  fungus 
Works  into  each  face — line — 
THe  Bond-street  exterior — 
tears  at  his  vitals — 
gravely  the  whisker  droops 
his  eyes  are  cold. 

Immaculate  meteor 
Inside  a  thick  ichos 
outside  a  thick  ether 
quenched  the  bright  music  .  .  , 

Peter  read  these  three  verses;  then  a  second  time, 
then  a  third.  The  young  woman  was  talking  fiercely 
as  he  read.     She  turned  to  him: 

"Aren't  they  splendid?"  she  said.  "Hacket  at  his 
best.  I  was  a  little  doubtful  of  him,  but  now  there's 
no  question.  .  .  ." 

"Frankly,"  said  Peter,  "I  don't  understand  them. 
It's  about  a  drunkard,  isn't  it  ?     I  see  that,  but.  .  .  ." 


PETER  WESTCOTT  101 

''Don't  understand  it!"  cried  the  young  woman. 
"\Miat  don't  you  understand  ?" 

"Well,  for  instance,"  said  Peter,  "  'Immaculate  me- 
teor.' Is  that  the  world,  or  Bond  Street,  or  the  whisky  ?" 
He  felt  her  contempt. 

She'laughed. 

"Well,  of  course,  Hacket's  poems  aren't  for  every- 
body," she  said. 

She  got  up  then,  and  left  him.  He  knew  the  report 
that  she  would  make  of  him  to  Temple.  He  sat  there 
bewildered.  He  began  to  feel  lonely  and  a  little  angry. 
After  all  it  was  not  his  fault  that  he  had  not  understood 
the  poem.  Or  was  it  the  heat  of  the  room  ?  He  wished 
that  someone  would  offer  him  some  tea,  but  everyone 
was  talking,  talking,  talking.  He  sat  back  and  listened. 
The  talk  eddied  about  him,  dazing  him,  retreating, 
rolling  back  again.  He  listened.  Every  kind  of  topic 
was  there — men,  women,  the  war,  Germany,  poetry, 
homo-sexuality,  divorce,  adultery,  Walt  Whitman, 
Sapho,  names,  strange  names,  American  names,  French 
names,  Russian  names,  condemning  Him,  condemning 
Her,  condemning  It,  the  war,  Man  .  .  .  Woman  .  .  . 

Once  and  again  he  caught  popular  names.  How 
they  were  condemned!  The  scorn,  the  languid,  inso- 
lent scorn.  Then  pacifism.  .  .  .  He  gathered  that  two 
of  the  men  in  the  room  had  been  forced  to  dig  potatoes 
for  the  Government  because  they  didn't  believe  in  war. 
Patriotism !  The  room  quivered  with  scorn.  Patriots ! 
It  was  as  though  you  had  said  murderers  or  adulterers ! 
His  anger  gi-ew.  Eobsart  was  better  than  this,  far, 
far  better.     At  least  Eobsart  tried  to  make  something 


102      THE  thietee:n'  teavellers 

out  of  life.  He  was  not  ashamed  to  be  happy.  He  did 
not  condemn.  He  was  doubtful  about  himself,  too. 
He  would  not  have  asked  Peter  to  lunch  had  he  not 
been  doubtful  .  .  .  And  the  arrogance  here.  The  room 
was  thick  with  it.  The  self-applause  mounted  higher 
and  higher.  The  fat  man  read  one  of  his  poem.  Only 
a  few  words  reached  Peter.  "Buttock  .  .  .  blood 
.  .  .  cobra  .  .  .  loins  .  .  .  mud  .  .  .  shrill  .  .  . 
bovine  ..." 

Suddenly  he  felt  as  though  in  another  moment  he 
would  rush  into  their  midst,  striking  them  apart,  cry- 
ing out  against  them,  as  condemnatory,  as  arrogant  as 
they.  He  got  from  his  sofa  and  crept  from  the  room. 
I^o  one  noti'^ed  him.  In  the  street  the  beautiful,  cool, 
evening  air  could  not  comfort  him.  He  was  wretched, 
lonely,  angry,  above  all,  most  bitterly  disappointed. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  he  walked  along  slowly  up  Fleet 
Street  that  life  was  really  hopeless  and  useless.  On 
the  one  side,  Robsart;  on  the  other,  these  arrogant 
fools,  and  in  the  middle,  himself,  no  better  than  they— 
worse,  indeed — for  they  at  least  stood  for  something, 
and  he  for  nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  That  absurd 
poem  had,  at  any  rate,  effort  behind  it,  striving,  ambi- 
tion, hope.  He  had  cared  all  his  life  for  intellectual 
things,  had  longed  to  achieve  some  form  of  beauty, 
however  tiny,  however  insignificant.  .  .  .  He  had 
achieved  nothing.  Well,  that  knowledge  would  not 
have  beaten  him  down  had  he  felt  the  true  spirit  of 
greatness  in  these  others.  He  realised  now  how  deeply 
he  had  hoped  from  that  meeting.  He  had  believed 
in  the  new  world  of  which  they  were  all  talking ;  he  had 


PETER  WESTCOTT  103 

believed  that  its  creation  would  be  brought  about  by 
the  forces  of  art,  of  brotherhood,  of  kindliness,  and 
charity,  and  nobility.  And  then  to  go  and  listen  to> 
a  meeting  like  Temple's?  But  what  right  had  he  to 
judge  them,  or  Robsart,  or  anyone? 

Only  too  ready  to  believe  himself  a  failure,  it  seemed 
now  that  the  world  too  was  a  failure;  that  the  worst 
things  that  the  pessimists  had  said  during  the  war  were 
now  justified.  Above  all  he  detested  his  owti  arro- 
gance in  judging  these  other  men. 

He  had  come  by  now  to  Piccadilly  Circus.  He  was 
held  by  the  crowd  for  a  moment  on  the  kerb  outside 
Swan  &  Edgar's.  The  Circus  was  wrapped  in  a  pale, 
honey-coloured  evening  glow.  The  stir  of  the  movement 
of  the  traffic  was  dimmed  as  though  it  came  through  a 
half -open  door.  Peter  felt  calm  touch  his  bitter  unhap- 
piness  as  he  stood  there.  He  stayed  as  though  someone 
had  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  was  holding  him  there. 
He  was  conscious  for  the  second  time  that  day  of  antici- 
pation. Now,  having  been  cheated  once,  he  tried  to 
drive  it  away,  but  it  would  not  leave  him,  and  he 
waited  almost  as  though  he  were  expecting  some  proces- 
sion to  pass.  The  shops  were  closing,  and  many  people 
were  going  home.  As  he  stood  there  Big  Ben  struck 
six  o'clock,  and  was  echoed  from  St.  James's  and  St. 
Martin's.  People  were  coming  in  prepared  for  an. 
evening's  amusement.  The  last  shoppers  were  waiting 
for  the  omnibuses  to  take  them  up  Regent  Street. 

Opposite  Peter  there  were  the  Criterion  posters  Our 
Mr.  Hepplewhite,  and  opposite  Mr.  Hepplewhite 
Mile.  Delysia  was  swinging  her  name  in  mid-air  to 


104         THE  THIPtTEEX  TRAVELLERS 

entice  the  world  into  the  Pavilion.  Every  kind  of 
shop  crowded  there  round  the  Circus — barbers',  and 
watch-makers',  and  bag-makers',  and  hosiers',  and  jewel- 
lers', and  tobacconists',  and  restaurants,  and  tea-shops — 
there  they  all  were;  and  the  omnibuses,  like  lumbering 
mastodons  or  ichthyosauri,  came  tottering  and  tumbling 
into  the  centre,  finding  their  heavy,  thick-headed  way 
out  again  as  though  they  were  blinded  by  this  dazzling, 
lighted  world. 

He  was  struck,  as  he  watched,  by  the  caution,  the 
hesitation,  the  apparent  helplessness  of  all  the  world. 
Londoners  had  always  been  represented  as  so  self-confi- 
dent, self-assured,  but  if  you  watched  to-night,  it  seemed 
that  everyone  hesitated.  Young  men  with  their  girls, 
women  with  babies,  men,  boys;  again  and  again  Peter 
saw  in  faces  that  same  half-timid,  half-friendly  glance ; 
felt  on  every  side  of  him  a  kindliness  that  was  born  of 
a  little  terror,  a  little  dread.  There  was  some  parallel 
to  the  scene  in  his  mind.  He  could  not  catch  it,  his 
mind  strove  back.  Suddenly,  with  the  big  form  of  a 
policeman  who  stepped  in  front  of  him  to  control  the 
traffic,  he  knew  of  what  it  was  that  he  was  thinking. 
Years  ago,  when  he  had  first  come  up  to  London,  he  had 
lived  in  a  boarding-house,  and  there  had  been  there 
a  large  family  of  children  with  whom  he  had  been  very 
friendly.  The  parents  of  the  children  had  been  poor, 
but  their  single  living-room  had  been  a  nursery  of  a 
happy,  discordant  kind.  Every  sort  of  toy  had  found 
its  way  in  there,  and  Peter  could  see  the  half-dozen 
children,  now  trembling,  fighting,  laughing,  crying,  the 
mother  watching  them  and  guarding  them. 


PETER  WESTCOTT  105 

The  Circus  was  a  nursery.  The  blue  evening  sky 
was  closed  down,  a  radiant  roof.  Everywhere  were 
■  the  toys.  !N^ow  it  seemed  that  balls  were  danced  in  the 
air;  now  that  someone  sang  or  rang  bells;  now  that 
some  new  game  was  suddenly  proposed  and  greeted 
with  a-  shout  of  joy.  The  children  filled  the  Circus; 
the  policemen  were  toy  policemen,  the  omnibuses  toy 
omnibuses,  the  theatres  toy  theatres. 

On  every  side  of  him  Peter  felt  the  kindliness,  the 
helplessness,  the  pathos  of  his  vision.  They  were  chil- 
dren; he  was  a  child;  the  world  was  only  a  nursery, 
after  all.  The  sense  of  his  eaidier  indignation  had  left 
him.  It  seemed  now  that  anger  and  condemnation, 
whether  of  Eobsart,  or  Temple  and  his  friends,  or  of 
himself,  were  absurd.  They  were  all  children  together, 
children  in  their  ignorance,  their  helplessness,  children 
in  theii*  love  for  one  another,  their  generosity,  and  their 
hope. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment that  had  been  for  so  long  a  stiunbling-block  to  all 
his  effort  left  him.  He  felt  as  though,  like  Pilgrim, 
he  had  suddenly  dropped  his  pack.  Children  in  the 
nursery — the  lot  of  them.  ISTo  place  in  this  world  for 
high  indignation,  for  bitterness,  for  denunciation. 

The  injustice,  the  ill-humour,  the  passions  of  life 
were  like  the  quarrels  in  children's  play ;  the  wisest  man 
alive  knew  just  as  much  as  his  nursery-walls  could  show 
him. 

He  laughed  and  turned  homewards. 

The  new  world?  Perhaps.  The  progress  of  the 
world?     Perhaps.    Meanwhile,  the^'e  were  nursery-tea, 


106         THE  THIKTEEI^  TKAVELLEES 

a  game  of  pirates,  and  a  fairy-tale  by  the  fire  .  .  .  and 
after  it  all,  that  sound,  dreamless  sleep  that  only  chil- 
dren know.  Would  one  wake  in  the  morning  and  find 
that  one  was  leaving  the  nursery  for  school?  Who 
could  tell  ?     JSTo  one  returned  with  any  stor)^  .  .  . 

Meanwhile,  there  was  enough  to  do  to  help  in  keep- 
ing the  nursery  in  order,  in  seeing  that  the  weaker 
babies  were  not  trodden  upon,  in  making  sure  that  no 
one  cried  himself  to  sleep. 

Anger  and  condemnation  would  never  be  possible 
again ;  no,  nor  would  he  expect  the  Millennium. 


VI 

;:.  LUCY  MOOI^ 

LUCY  MOOl^  was  the  daughter  of  the  Eeverend 
Stephen  Moon,  Rector  of  Little  Hawkesworth  in 
ISTorth  Yorkshire.  She  was  twenty-one  years  of  age, 
and  pretty.  She  was  so  pretty  indeed  that  she  reminded 
one  young  man  in  Hawkesworth  of  "a  cornfield  under 
a  red  moon,"  and  the  Reverend  Simon  Laud,  to  whom 
she  was  engaged,  thought  of  her  privately  as  his  "golden 
goddess,"  from  which  it  will  be  seen  that  she  had  yellow 
hair  and  a  peach-like  complexion. 

She  had  lived  always  a  very  quiet  and  retired  life, 
the  nearest  to  adventure  being  two  or  three  expeditions 
to  Scarborough.  She  did  not  know,  however,  that  her 
life  was  retired.  She  was  never  dull.  She  had  two 
younger  brothers,  and  was  devoted  to  her  father  and 
mother.  She  never  questioned  their  authority.  She 
read  the  books  that  they  advised,  and  wished  to  read 
no  others.  The  life  that  ebbed  and  flowed  around  the 
rectory  seemed  to  her  a  very  exciting  one,  and  it  was 
not  until  the  Reverend  Simon  Laud,  rector  of  a  neigh- 
bouring parish,  proposed  to  her,  and  she  found  that 
she  accepted  him,  although  she  did  not  love  him,  that 
she  began  to  wonder,  a  little  uncei'tainly,  with  a  little 
bewilderment,  about  herself.      She  had   accepted  him 

because  everyone  had  agreed  that  it  was  so  obviously 

107 


108         THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

the  right  thing  for  her  to  do.  She  had  known  him  ever 
since  she  could  rememher.  Hie  was  older  than  she,  and 
kindly,  although  he  had  asthma  and  his  knees  cracked. 
He  had  been  rector  of  his  parish  for  twenty  years,  and 
everyone  said  that  he  was  a  very  good  man  indeed.  He 
had  a  sense  of  humour  too,  and  his  Penny  Readings 
were  the  best  in  all  North  Yorkshire.  It  was  not  until 
Simon  had  kissed  her  that  Lucy  wondered  whether  she 
were  doing  right.  She  did  not  like  him  to  kiss  her. 
His  nose  seemed  so  large  when  near  to  her,  and  his  lips 
tried  to  catch  hers  and  hold  them  with  a  kind  of  suck- 
ing motion  that  was  quite  distressing  to  her.  She 
looked  ridiculously  young  when  Mr.  Laud  proposed  to 
her,  with  her  fair  gold  hair  piled  up  in  coils  on  the  top 
of  her  head,  her  cheeks  crimsoned  with  her  natural 
agitation,  and  her  young,  childish  body,  like  a  boy's, 
slender  and  strong  under  her  pink  cotton  gown. 

''My  little  girl!"  Mr.  Laud  said,  and  kissed  her 
again.  She  went  up  to  her  room  and  cried  for  quite  a 
long  time.  Then,  when  she  saw  how  happy  her  mother 
was,  she  was  happy  too.  Perhaps  he  would  not  want 
to  kiss  her  after  they  were  married. 

Then  came  the  marvellous  event;  Her  Aunt  Harriet, 
Mrs.  Comstock,  her  mother's  sister,  and  a  rich  widow, 
asked  her  to  come  and  stay  with  her  for  a  month  in 
London.  Mrs.  Comstock  was  a  good-natured,  chatter- 
ing widow,  fond  of  food  and  bright  attire ;  Mrs.  Moon 
hesitated  about  committing  Lucy  to  her  care,  but  she 
felt  perhaps  it  would  do  the  child  no  harm  to  give  her 
a  peep  at  worldly  ways,  before  the  long  black  arms 
of  Simon  Laud  closed  her  in  for  ever.    Lucy  was  terri- 


LUCY  MOON  109 

fied  and  delighted  both  at  once.  It  meant  that  she 
would  see  London,  where  she  had  never  in  all  her  life 
been.  Even  the  war  had  not  altered  her.  She  had 
worked  in  the  village  institute,  knitted  and  sewed, 
helped  in  the  village  concerts.  The  war  had  seemed 
very  remote  to  her.  She  had  lost  no  one  whom  she 
loved.  She  was  vaguely  distressed  by  it,  as  she  might 
have  been  by  the  news  of  an  earthquake  at  N'aples.  The 
Moon  household  believed  in  tranquillity.  Mr.  Moon 
was  engaged  in  a  series  of  village  addresses  on  "The 
ISTativity."  The  war,  after  all,  he  felt,  '^is  probably  a 
blessing  in  disguise !" 

So  Lucy  saw  it.  I  think,  as  the  day  of  her  departure 
drew  near,  that  she  had  some  slight  premonition  of 
future  events.  The  village,  the  fields,  the  lanes,  the 
church,  were  touched  suddenly  by  some  new  and 
pathetic  splendour.  The  spring  came  late  to  York- 
shire that  year,  and  the  lanes  were  coloured  with  a 
faint  shadow  of  purple  behind  the  green,  so  light  and 
shining  that  it  seemed  to  be  glass  in  its  texture.  The 
bright  spaces  of  the  moon  were  uncertain  in  their  dim 
shadows,  and  there  were  soft  spongy  marshes  where 
the  frost  had  released  the  underground  streams,  and 
long  stretches  of  upland  grass,  grey-white  beneath  the 
pale  spring  skies.  S23ace  was  infinite.  The  village, 
tucked  under  the  rim  of  the  moor  with  its  grey  church, 
its  wild,  shaggy,  tiny  graveyard,  its  spreading  village 
street,  was  like  a  rough  Yorkshire  child  huddling  for 
protection  beneath  its  father's  shoulder.  This  had 
pathos  and  an  appeal  for  love,  and  a  cry  of  motherhood. 
The  clouds,  carried  by  the  fresh  spring  wind,  raced 


110        THE  THIRTEEiN'  TEAVELLERS 

above  the  churcli  steeple,  swinging  the  young  birds  in 
their  flight,  throwing  joyfully,  contemptuously,  shadows 
across  the  long  street,  shadows  coloured  and  trembling 
like  banners. 

Lucy  had  known  these  beauties  all  her  life;  now 
they  appealed  to  her  with  a  new  urgency.  "When  you 
come  back,"  they  seemed  to  say  to  her,  "we  shall  not 
be  the  same.  !N^ow  you  are  free  as  we.  When  you  come 
back  you  will  be  a  prisoner." 

It  was  strange  to  her,  and  horrible,  that  the  thought 
of  her  approaching  marriage  should  haunt  her  as  it 
did.  There  were  things  about  it  that  she  had  not 
realised.  She  had  not  understood  that  her  parents,  the 
village,  her  relations  would  all  make  so  momentous 
an  affair  of  it.  When  Mr.  Laud  had  proposed  to  her, 
and  she  had  accepted  him,  it  had  seemed  to  her  a  mat- 
ter simply  between  themselves.  I^ow  everyone  had  a 
concern  in  it;  ever^'one  accepted  it  as  so  absolutely 
settled.  Did  Lucy  for  a  single  instant  contemplate  the 
breaking  of  an  engagement  she  saw  with  an  almost 
agonised  terror  the  whole  village  tumbling  upon  her 
head.  The  very  church  steeple  would  fall  down  and 
crush  her.  She  was  beginning  too,  to  see  her  father 
and  mother  now  in  a  new  light.  They  had  always  been 
very  sweet  to  her,  and  she  had  loved  them  dearly,  but 
they  had  been  sweet  to  her,  she  could  not  help  but  see, 
very  largely  because  she  had  shown  so  absolute  an  obe- 
dience. Her  mind  now  would  persistently  return  to 
certain  occasions  in  her  young  history  when  she  had 
hinted  ever  so  slightly  at  having  an  opinion  of  her  own. 


LUCY  MOOK  111 

Had  that  opinion  been  given  a  moment's  opportunity  ? 
ISTever.     JSTever  once. 

Of  her  two  parents,  her  father  was  perhaps  the  more 
resolute.  His  mild,  determined  surprise  at  the 
expression  of  an  individual  ojiiuion  was  a  terrible 
thing  fo  witness.  He  did  wish  not  to  be  dogmatic  with 
her,  but,  after  all,  things  were  as  they  were.  How  could 
bad  be  good  or  good  bad  ?  There  you  were.  A  thing 
was  either  right,  or  it  wasn't.  .  .  .  There  you  were. 

And  so  around  Lucy  and  her  Simon  a  huge  temple 
was  erected  by  the  willing  hands  of  her  parents,  rela- 
tions, and  friends.  There  she  was  right  inside  with  the 
doors  locked  and  the  windows  closed,  and  Simon  with 
his  long  black  arms,  his  large  nose,  and  his  damp  red 
mouth  waiting  for  her. 

It  was  her  own  fault.    There  was  nothing  to  be  done. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  she  was 
unhappy  when  she  set  off  on  her  London  visit.  She 
was  entirely  resigned  to  the  future;  she  loved  her 
mother  and  father  and  the  village,  and  Mr.  Laud  had 
been  assigned  to  her  by  God.  She  would  enjoy  her 
month,  and  then  make  the  best  of  it.  After  all,  he 
would  not  want  always  to  kiss  her.  She  knew  enough 
about  married  life  to  be  sure  of  that. 

She  went  up  to  London  with  a  neat  black  trunk,  a 
new  hat  with  roses  on  it,  and  a  little  umbrella,  green 
and  white,  that  her  mother  gave  her. 

Mrs.  Comstock  had  a  flat  at  Hortons,  in  Duke  Street. 

To  Lucy  Duke  Street  meant  nothing.  Jermyn  Street 
meant  nothing.  Even  Piccadilly  did  not  mean  very 
much.     St.  James's  Palace,  however,  did  mean  a  good 


112        THE  THIETEEN  TEAVELLEES 

deal,  and  the  first  sight  of  that  pearl-grey  dignity  and 
beauty,  with  the  round  friendly  clock,  little  clouds  like 
white  pillows  in  the  blue  sky  above,  the  sentry  in  his 
box,  the  grace  and  courtesy  of  the  Mall,  these  brought 
a  sob  into  her  throat,  and  made  her  eyes  dry  and  hot. 

That  sight  of  the  palace  gave  her  the  setting  for  the 
rest  of  the  wonderful  new  world.  Had  Mrs.  Comstock 
allowed  her,  she  would  have  spent  the  whole  of  her  time 
in  those  fascinating  streets.  Piccadilly  frightened  her 
a  little.  The  motor-omnibuses  and  cars  rushed  so 
fiercely  along,  like  pirates  on  a  buccaneering  expedition, 
and  everyone  was  so  haughty,  and  the  shops  so  grand. 

But  it  never  ceased  to  be  marvellously  romantic  to 
her  that  you  could  so  swiftly  slip  through  an  alley  and 
be  hushed  at  once  with  a  lovely  tranquillity,  no  sound 
reaching  you  but  the  cry  of  the  flower-man,  the  distant 
honk  of  a  taxicab,  the  bells  of  St.  James's  Church,  the 
distant  boom  of  Westminster.  All  the  shops  in  these 
streets  round  Hortons  seemed  to  her  romantic  fancy 
to  be  coloured  a  rich  old  walnut.  And  against  this 
backgi'ound  there  was  every  kind  of  ti'easure — prints  of 
coaches  stuck  deep  in  snowdrifts,  of  huntsmen  leaping 
over  hedges,  of  fishermen  wading  deep  in  tranquil 
rivers,  of  Oxford  colleges  and  Westminster  Abbey — all 
these,  printed  in  deep  old  rich  colours,  blue  and  red  and 
orange,  colours  so  deep  and  rich  that  they  seemed  to 
sink  far  down  into  the  page.  There  were  also  the 
Jewels  and  china  and  boxes — old  Toby  jugs  and  deli- 
cate cups  and  saucers,  and  amber-bead  necklaces,  and 
Chinese  gods,  and  cabinets  of  rich  red  lacquer.  She 
had  a  permanent  picture  of  these  treasures  in  the  old 


LUCY  MOON  113 

dark  shops,  and  from,  the  house's  bachelors,  young  and 
old,  plain  and  handsome,  but  all  beautifully  dressed, 
stepping  in  and  out,  going,  she  supposed,  to  their  clubs 
and  dinners  and  games,  carrying  with  them  everj^where 
that  atmosphere  of  expensive  cigars  and  perfectly- 
pressed  clothes  and  innumerable  baths. 

She  gathered  all  this  in  the  first  day  or  two  of  her 
stay,  and  it  was  as  delightful  and  personal  to  her,  as 
though  she  herself  had  been  God,  and  had  created  it  all. 

Hortons,  in  its  own  turn,  was  delighted  with  her. 
It  had  never  seen  anything  so  fresh  and  charming  in 
all  its  long  life.  It  had  often  received  beautiful  women 
into  its  capacious  heart,  and  it  had  known  some  very 
handsome  men,  but  Lucy  was  lovely.  Mr.  iNTix,  who 
could  be  on  occasions  a  poet,  said  of  her  that  she  made 
him  think  of  "strawberries  and  junket  and  his  own  self 
at  twenty."    He  did  not  say  this  to  Mrs.  INTix. 

To  Lucy,  the  only  thing  that  was  wi'ong  with  Hor- 
tons was  her  aunt.  She  disliked  Mrs.  Comstock  from 
the  very  first  moment.  She  did  not  like  the  way  that 
she  was  over-dressed,  the  way  that  she  talked  without 
looking  at  you,  the  way  that  she  spoke  so  crossly  to  her 
maid,  the  way  that  she  loved  her  food,  the  way  that 
she  at  once  implied  that  it  was  wonderfully  fortunate 
for  Lucy  to  have  her  to  come  to. 

She  discovered  at  once  that  her  aunt  was  on  the  side 
of  her  parents  with  regard  to  Mr.  Simon  Laud.  Mrs. 
Oomstock's  opinion  was  that  Lucy  might  consider  her- 
self very  fortunate  to  have  been  selected  by  so  good  a 
man,  that  she  must  do  her  best  to  deserve  her  good  for- 


114         THE  thirteen;!"  TRAVELLERS 

tune,  because  girls  nowadays  don't  find  it  easy  to  pick 
up  men.     Men  know  too  much ! 

"To  pick  up  men!"  What  a  horrible  phrase!  And 
Lucy  had  not  picked  up  Simon  Laud.  She  had  been 
picked  up — really  against  her  will.  Lucy  then  dis- 
covered that  her  Aunt  Harriet — that  is,  Mrs.  Comstock 
— had  invited  her  to  London  for  this  month  in  order 
to  have  a  companion.  She  had  a  paid  companion — Miss 
Flagstaff — but  that  unfortunate  woman  had  at  last  been 
allowed  a  holidav.  Here  was  a  whole  month,  then,  and 
what  was  poor  Mrs.  Comstock  to  do  ?  Why,  of  course, 
there  was  that  niece  up  in  Yorkshire.  The  very  thing. 
She  would  do  admirably. 

Lucy  found  that  her  first  duty  was  to  read  every 
morning  the  society  papers.  There  was  the  Tatler  with 
Eve's  letter.  There  was  the  Queen  and  the  Lady's 
Pictorial^  and  several  other  smaller  ones.  These  papers 
appeared  once  a  week,  and  it  was  Lucy's  duty  to  see 
that  they  stretched  out,  two  hours  every  morning,  from 
Saturday  to  Saturday. 

Aunt  Harriet  had  society  at  her  fingers'  ends,  and 
the  swiftly  succeeding  marriages  of  Miss  Elizabeth 
Asquith,  Miss  Violet  Keppel,  and  Lady  Diana  Manners 
just  about  this  time  gave  her  a  gi-eat  deal  to  do.  She 
had  a  scrap-book  into  which  she  pasted  photographs 
and  society  clippings.  She  labelled  this  "Our  leaders," 
and  Lucy's  morning  labours  were  firmly  linked  to  this 
scrap-book.  Once  she  pasted  an  impressionist  portrait 
of  Miss  Keppel  upside-down  into  the  book,  and  saw 
for  a  full  five  minutes  what  Aunt  Harriet  was  like 
when  she  was  reallj'  angry. 


LUCY  MOOK  115 

"I'd  better  go  back  to  Hawkesworth !"  Lucy  cried, 
more  defiant  than  she  would  ever  have  suspected  she 
could  be.  However,  this  was  not  at  all  what  Aunt 
Harriet  wanted;  Lucy  was  making  herself  extremely 
useful.  Lucy  did  not  want  it  either.  So  peace  was 
made.-  One  result  of  this  snipping  up  of  society  was 
that  Lucy  began  to  be  strangely  conscious  of  the  world 
that  was  beating  up  around  her. 

A  strange,  queer,  confused,  dramatic  world!  For 
positively  the  first  time  she  was  aware  of  some  of  the 
things  that  the  w^ar  had  done,  of  what  it  had  meant  to 
many  people,  of  the  chasms  that  it  had  made  in  rela- 
tionships, the  ruins  in  homes,  and  also  of  the  heroisms 
that  it  had  emphasised — and,  beyond  all  these  indi- 
vidual things,  she  had  a  sense  of  a  new  world  rising 
painfully  and  slowly  from  the  chaos  of  the  old — but 
rising!  Yes,  even  through  these  ridiculous  papers  of 
her  aunt's,  she  could  feel  the  first  stirrings,  the  first 
trumpetings  to  battle,  voices  sounding,  only  a  little  dis' 
tance  from  her,  wonderful  new  messages  of  hope  and 
ambition. 

This  affected  her;  she  began  to  wonder  how  she 
could,  through  all  these  four  years  of  war,  have  stayed 
so  quietly  in  her  remote  Hawkesworth.  She  began  to 
despise  herself  because  she  had  stayed. 

This  excitement  developed  quickly  into  the  same 
kind  of  premonition  that  she  had  had  before  leaving 
Hawkesworth.  Something  was  about  to  happen  to  her ! 
What  would  it  be?  She  awoke  every  morning  with  a 
strange,  burning  excitement  in  her  throat,  a  confused, 
thick  beating  of  the  heart. 


116        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

Meanwhile,  her  month  was  drawing  to  its  close,  the 
days  speeding  on  through  a  glittering  pageant  of  won- 
derful May  weather,  when  the  town  sparkled  and  quiv- 
ered like  a  heap  of  quartz. 

Simon  Laud  wrote  that  he  was  coming  up  to  London 
to  fetch  her,  to  take  her  back  with  him  to  Hawkesworth 
— ''that  he  could  not  wait  any  longer  without  seeing  his 
pet." 

When  Lucy  read  those  words  she  was  strangely  tran- 
quillised.  She  did  not  know  what  it  was  that,  during 
these  days,  she  had  been  wanting.  What  so  strangely 
had  she  been  expecting  ?    Whom  ?  .  .  . 

Her  inexperience  cried  out  to  Simon  Laud  to  come 
and  defend  her.  She  had  a  time  of  true  terror,  fright- 
ened by  Aunt  Harriet,  by  London,  by  strikes  and  wars 
and  turbulences,  above  all,  by  her  own  self,  and  by  the 
discontents  and  longings  and  desires  to  which  some 
influence  seemed  to  be  urging  her. 

She  wrote  her  first  loving  letter  to  Simon.  She  told 
him  that  she  hoped  that  they  would  be  married  very 
soon,  and  that  indeed  he  was  to  come  and  fetch  her. 
It  would  be  lovely  to  go  back  to  Hawkesworth  with 
him.  And  when  she  had  posted  her  letter,  she  sat  on 
her  bed  in  her  little  room  in  Hortons  with  her  face  in 
her  hands  and  cried  bitterly,  desperately — why,  she 
did  not  know.  Mrs.  Comstock  saw  that  she  had  been 
crying,  and  was  moved  by  the  child-like  simplicity  and 
innocence  of  "poor  stupid  Lucy,"  as  she  called  her  to 
herself.  She  was  moved  to  unusual  generosity,  and  sug- 
gested that  they  should  go  that  night  to  a  symphony 
concert  at  the  Queen's  Hall — "Although  they  are  going 


LUCY  M00:N'  117 

to  play  Brahms,  which  I  can't  say  that  I  approve  of, 
because  he  was  surely  a  German,  if  anyone  ever  was, 
and  haven't  we  got  plenty  of  good  music  of  our  own, 
I  wonder  ?  Anyway,  you  needn't  listen  to  the  Brahms, 
Lucy,  if  you  don't  want  to.  You  won't  understand 
him,  anyway.  I  expect  he's  one  of  the  most  difficult  of 
the  composers,  although  he  is  dead." 

Lucy  paid  small  attention.  She  had  been  out  only 
twice  with  her  aunt  in  the  evening  during  her  London 
stay,  once  to  a  lecture  on  "Y.M.C.A.  Work  at  the 
Front,"  and  once  to  a  musical  play^  Monsieur  Beaiir 
caire.  She  had  liked  the  lecture,  but  she  had  adored 
Beaucaire,  and  she  thought  that  perhaps  the  Queen's 
Hall  would  be  something  of  the  same  .kind. 

She  had  never  in  all  her  life  been  to  a  "Symphony 
Concert." 

Aunt  Han'iet,  armour-plated  with  jewellery,  made  an 
exciting  contrast  with  Lucy,  whose  blazing  red-gold 
hair,  large,  rather  puzzled  eyes,  and  plain  white  dress, 
needed  exotic  suiTOundings  to  emphasise  their  true 
colour. 

"You  look  very  pretty,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Harriet, 
who  had  made  that  evening  a  little  money  on  the  Stock 
Exchange,  and  was  happy  accordingly,  "and  quite 
excited,  just  as  though  you  were  expecting  to  see  your 
Simon." 

"I  wish  he  could  have  arrived  to-night  instead  of 
to-morrow,"  said  Lucv. 

But  did  she?  As  they  drove  through  the  streets 
scattered  with  star-dust,  watched  by  a  crimson  moon, 
she  sighed  with  that  strange  confusion  of  happiness 


118        THE  THIETEEN  TKAVELLERS 

and  imhappiness  that  seemed  always  to  be  hers  now. 
What  was  going  to  happen?  Who  was  coming?  .  .  , 
Only  Simon  ? 

She  felt  a  return  of  her  earlier  breathless  excitement 
as  they  pushed  their  way  through  the  crowd  in  the  lobby. 
"Stalls  this  way.  .  .  .  Downstairs  to  the  stalls."  "To 
your  right,  madam.  Second  on  your  right !"  "Tickets, 
please  .  .  .  tickets,  please!" 

Mrs.  Comstock  was  a  redoubtable  general  on  these 
occasions,  and  pushed  people  aside  with  her  sharp 
elbows,  and  flashed  indignant  glances  with  her  fine  eyes, 
and  spread  back  her  shoulders,  and  sparkled  her 
rings.  .  .  . 

Lucy  wished  that  her  aunt  would  not  figure  so  promi- 
nently. She  had  perhaps  never  before  disliked  her  so 
thoroughly  as  she  did  to-night.  Then,  out  of  the  con- 
fusion and  noise,  there  came  peace.  They  were  set- 
tling down  into  their  seats,  and  on  every  side  of  them 
were  space  and  light  and  colour,  and  a  whispering 
murmur  like  the  distant  echo  of  the  sea  on  Scarborough 
beach.  Lucy  was  suddenly  happy.  Her  eyes  sparkled, 
her  heart  beat  high.  She  looked  about  her  and  was 
pleasantly  stirred  by  the  size  of  the  building.  "]^ot  so 
large  as  the  Albert  Hall,"  she  had  heard  someone  say. 
Why,  then,  how  truly  enormous  the  Albert  Hall  must 
be — and  she  thought  suddenly,  with  a  little  kindly  con- 
tempt, of  Simon,  and  how  very  small  he  would  seem 
placed  in  the  middle  of  the  stalls  all  by  himself. 

The  musicians  began  to  file  into  their  seats ;  the  lights 
turned  up;  the  strangest  discordances,  like  the  voices 
of  spirits  in  a  lost  world,  filled  the  air;   every^vhere 


LUCY  MOON  119 

clumps  of  empty  seats  vanished  .  .  .  people,  people 
from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor.  ...  A  little  man  stepped 
forward,  stood  upon  his  platform,  bowed  to  the 
applause,  held  with  uplifted  baton  a  moment's  silence, 
then  released  upon  the  air  the  accustomed  harmonies 
of  Ruy  Bias. 

To  Lucy,  who  knew  so  little  of  life,  that  flooding 
melody  of  sound  was  the  loveliest  discovery.  She  sat 
back  very  straight,  eyes  staring,  drinking  it  in,  for- 
getting at  once  the  lighted  hall,  her  aunt,  everything. 
Only  Simon  Laud  persisted  with  her.  It  seemed  as 
though  to-night  his  figure  refused  to  leave  her. 

He  did  not — oh!  how  instantly  she  knew  it — fit  in 
at  all  with  the  music.  It  was  as  though  he  were  trying 
to  draw  her  away  from  it,  trying  to  persuade  her  that 
she  did  not  really  like  it.  He  was  interfering  with  her 
happiness,  buzzing  at  her  ear  like  an  insect.  She  shook 
her  head  as  though  to  drive  this  something  away,  and, 
even  as  she  did  so,  she  was  aware  that  something  else 
was  happening  to  her. 

Someone  was  looking  at  her.  She  felt  a  truly  desper- 
ate impatience  at  this  second  interruption.  Someone 
was  trying  to  force  her  to  turn  her  head — yes,  to  the 
right.  She  was  looking  straight  in  front  of  her,  down 
to  where  the  hard,  thick  back  of  the  little  conductor 
seemed  to  centralise  into  itself,  and  again  to  distribute 
all  the  separate  streams  of  the  music.  Lucy  was  staring 
at  that  back  as  though  her  maintaining  her  connection 
with  it  was  her  only  link  with  the  music.  Hbw  tire- 
some that  she  should  not  be  allowed  to  concentrate  on 
her  happiness !     She  violently  dismissed  the  shadowy 


120        THE  THIRTEEiT  TRAVELLERS 

Simon ;  but  he  was  there,  just  behind  her  left  shoulder. 
Then,  with  another  effort  of  will,  she  forced  away  from 
her  that  attraction  on  the  right.  She  would  not  look ! 
In  all  probability,  it  was  imagination.  She  had  known 
in  Hawkesworth,  in  church,  at  the  Penny  Readings, 
that  sensation  that  people  were  staring  at  her;  simply 
her  self -consciousness.  She  drove  it  off;  it  came  closer 
to  her.  It  was  as  though  a  voice  were  saying  in  her  ear ; 
*'You  shall  look  to  the  right  .  .  ,  You  shall  look  to 
the  right.  .  .  ." 

"I  won't!  ...  I  won't!"  she  replied,  setting  her 
teeth.  Then,  to  her  o"vvn  pain  and  distress,  she  began 
to  blush.  She  had  always  detested  her  inevitable  blush- 
ing, despised  herself  for  her  weakness;  she  could  not 
fight  it;  it  was  stronger  than  she.  Surely  all  the  hall 
was  looking  at  her.  She  felt  as  though  soon  she  would 
be  forced  to  run  away  and  hide  in  the  comforting  dark- 
ness of  the  street. 

The  music  ceased;  the  little  man  was  bowing;  the 
tension  was  lifted;  everywhere  a  buzz  of  talk  rose,  as 
though  everyone  for  the  last  ten  minutes  had  been  hid- 
den beneath  a  glass  cover  that  was  suddenly  raised. 
Late  comers,  with  anxious  glances,  peered  about  for 
their  seats.    Lucy  turned  around. 

She  saw  at  once  that  indeed  it  was  true  that  someone 
had  been  staring  at  her.  Someone  was  staring  at  her 
now.  She  stared  in  return.  She  knew  that  she  should 
not.  Her  mother  had  always  taught  her  that  to  stare  at 
a  stranger  was  almost  the  worst  thing  that  you  could  do. 
!N'evertheless,  Lucy  glanced.  She  could  not  help  her- 
self.    He  was  looking  at  her  as  though  he  knew  her. 


LUCY  MOON  121 

Wlien  she  looked  in  her  turn  the  start  that  he  gave,  the 
way  that  a  half-smile  hovered  about  his  lips,  was  almost 
an  acknowledgment  of  recognition.  And  had  she  not 
known  him  before  ?  He  seemed  so  familiar  to  her — and 
yet,  of  course,  he  could  not  be.  The  conviction  that  she 
had  be&n  staring  suddenly  overwhelmed  her  with  shame, 
and  she  turned  away.  But  now  he  was  impressed  upon 
her  brain  as  though  she  were  looking  at  a  picture  of 
him — his  large,  rather  ugly,  but  extremely  good- 
humoured  face,  his  fair,  rather  untidy  hair,  his  fair 
eyebrows,  his  short,  closely-clipped  moustache,  his  black 
dinner-jacket,  and  black  bow  tie — above  all,  that  charm- 
ing,  doubtful,  half-questioning  smile. 

But  why,  if  they  had  never  met  before,  did  he  stare 
like  that?    Why  did  .  .  .  ? 

The  applause  had  broken  out  again.  A  tall  man  hold- 
ing a  violin  was  bowing.  The  Brahms  violin  concerto 
began. 

She  sat  there  in  a  puzzled  and  bewildered  state.  What 
had  happened  to  her?  Who  had  come  to  her,  lifting 
her,  it  seemed,  out  of  her  own  body,  transforming  her 
into  some  other  creature  ?  Was  she  feeling  this  merely 
because  a  man  had  stared  at  her  ?  She  felt,  as  she  sat 
there,  the  blush  still  tingling  in  her  cheeks,  as  though 
some  precious  part  of  her  that  had  left  her  many  years 
ago  had  now  suddenly  returned  to  her. 

She  was  Lucy  Moon,  the  whole,  complete  Lucy 
Moon,  for  the  first  time.  .  .  . 

The  first  movement  of  the  symphony  ended.  She 
looked  at  once  to  her  right.  His  eyes  were  resting  on 
her.     She  smiled. 


122        THE  THIKTEE:N'  TEAVELLEES 

How  could  she  ?  Did  slie  not  know,  had  she  not  been 
told  ever  since  she  could  remember,  that  the  most  ter- 
rible thing  that  a  girl  could  do  was  to  smile  at  a  stran- 
ger ?  But  he  was  not  a  stranger.  She  knew  everything 
about  him.  She  knew,  although  she  had  never  heard 
him  speak,  just  what  the  tone  of  his  voice  would  be, 
rough,  a  little  Scotch,  and  north  country  mixed  .  .  . 
not  many  words ;  he  would  be  shy  and  would  stammer  a 
little.  At  the  end  of  the  second  movement  she  smiled 
again.  He  smiled  back  and  raised  his  eyebrows  in  a 
laughing  question. 

At  the  end  of  the  symphony  the  air  crackled  with 
applause.  The  violinist  returned  again  and  again,  bow- 
ing. He  seemed  so  small,  and  his  magnificent  evening 
dress  did  not  suit  him.  Evening  dress,  did  not  suit 
Simon  either.  The  applause  died  away.  The  orchestra 
disappeared  through  the  back  of  the  hall. 

"So  hot,"  said  Aunt  Comstock,  whom,  until  now, 
Lucy  had  utterly  forgotten.  "A  breath  of  air  out- 
side. .  .  ." 

They  went  into  the  passage.  People  were  walking 
up  and  down.  They  halted  beside  a  swaying  door. 
Mrs.  Comstock  stood  there,  her  purple  bosom  heaving 
up  and  down.  "No  air.  .  .  .  Can't  think  why  they 
don't  .  .  ." 

Her  fine  eyes  flashed.  She  had  seen  Mrs.  Norris. 
Are  not  those  things  arranged  by  God?  Mrs.  Norris, 
whom  she  had  not  seen  for  so  many  months.  Are  not 
these  things  arranged  by  God?  Lucy's  friend  was  at 
her  elbow.  He  was  as  she  had  known  that  he  would  be ; 
kind-eyed,  clumsy  perhaps,  his  voice  rough  and  hesi- 


LUCY  MOON"  123 

tating.  .  .  .  He  was  alone.  He  stood  turned  a  little 
away  from  ter,  and  she,  as  though  she  had  been  prac- 
tising these  ai'ts  all  her  life,  looked  at  the  pea-green 
Mrs.  I^orris,  and  the  pearls  that  danced  on  her  bony 
neck.  The  voices  crept  towards  one  another.  'No  one 
would  have  known  that  Lucy's  mouth  moved  at  all. 

'''Can't  we  get  away  somewhere  ?" 

"I'm  with  my  aunt." 

"I  must  see  you." 

"Yes." 

"I  must." 

"I'm  with  my " 

"I  know." 

"Perhaps  at  the  end " 

"No,  give  me  somewhere  to  write  to." 

"It's " 

Aunt  Comstock's  voice  came  sailing  like  a  pirate's 
ship. 

"Amy,  this  is  my  niece,  Lucy." 

"How  do  you  do  ?    Are  you  enjoying 'London,  dear  ?" 

He  was  gone.     Oh,  he  was  go7ie!    And  no  address. 

She  could  have  slain  those  two  women,  one  so  fat, 
and  one  so  thin — willingly,  stabbed  them.  Perhaps  siie 
would  lose  him  now. 

They  returned.  "Something  of  Bizet's.  He  was 
French,  Lucy.  French  or  a  Spaniard.  .  .  .  Fancy 
Amy  ISTorris — lost  her  looks,  poor  dear.  Ah !  I  shall 
like  this.     Better  than  that  German." 

Lucy  heard  no  more  music.  Her  heart  beat  in  her 
throat,  choking  it.  Life  had  rushed  towards  her  and 
filled  her,  or  was  it  that  she  had  entered  into  life  ?    She 


124        THE  THIETEEX  TRAVELLERS 

did  not  know.  She  only  felt  intensely  proud,  like  a 
queen  entering  her  capital  for  the  first  time.  .  .  .  The 
concert  was  over.  Her  aunt  was  a  long  time  putting  on 
her  cloak;  people  stood  in  their  way,  stupid,  heav;\', 
idiotic  people.  When  they  came  into  the  hall  he  was 
not  there.  .  .  .  Yes.  ...  he  was  close  to  them.  For 
a  moment,  in  the  thick  crowd,  he  caught  her  hand.  At 
the  touch  of  his  fingers,  rough  and  strong,  upon  hers, 
she  seemed  to  soar  above  the  crowd  and  to  look  down 
upon  them  all  with  scornful  happiness.  He  said  some- 
thing that  she  could  not  catch,  and  then  Aunt  Corn- 
stock  had  hatefully  enveloped  her.  They  were  in  a 
taxi,  and  all  the  world  that  had  been  roaring  around 
her  was  suddenly  hushed.  They  reached  Hortons. 
Lucv  drank  her  hot  milk.    Her  aunt  said : 

"I  do  hope  you  enjoyed  your  concert,  darling.  .  .  . 
The  Bizet  was  best." 

She  had  undressed,  and  was  lying  on  her  bed,  flat 
on  her  back,  staring  up  at  the  white  ceilings  upon  whose 
surface  circles,  flung  from  the  lights  beyond  the  window, 
ran  and  quivered.  She  watched  the  circles,  but  she  was 
not  thinking  at  all.  She  seemed  to  be  lapped  about  by  a 
sea  of  warm  happiness.  She  floated  on  this ;  she  neither 
slept  nor  thought.  Eai'ly  in  the  morning  she  sank  into 
dreamless  slumber. 

She  came  down  to  breakfast  tired  with  happy  weai'i- 
ness.  She  found  Simon  Laud  waiting  for  her.  She 
stared  at  him  at  first  as  though  she  had  never  seen  him 
before.  He  was  not  looking  his  best.  He  explained 
that  he  had  caught  the  night  train  at  York.  He  was 
afraid  that  he  had  not  shaved  nor  washed,  but  that 


LUCY  M00:N"  125 

MxS.  Comstock  had  kindly  said:  "Have  your  break- 
fast first  .  .  .  with  us.  Lucy  has  just  been  longing 
for  you." 

Lucy  took  all  this  in  at  last.  She  saw  the  bright 
little  room  with  the  sun  pouring  in,  the  breakfast 
things  'with  the  silver  tea-pot  and  the  poiTidge,  and 
Aunt  Comstock  in  her  pink  tea-gown.  She  saw  these 
things,  and  then  Simon  Laud  took  a  step  towards  her. 

"Dear  Lucy!"  he  said.  That  step  showed  her  that 
there  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Simon  Laud  must  never 
touch  her  again.     ITever! 

"Simon,  I  wasn't  expecting  you.  But  it's  just  as 
well,  really.  It  will  get  it  over  more  quickly.  I  must 
tell  you  at  once  that  I  can't  marry  you !" 

Her  first  feeling  after  her  little  speech,  which  seemed 
in  a  strange  way  not  to  have  been  made  by  herself  at 
all,  was  that  it  was  a  great  shame  to  say  such  a  thing 
to  him  when  he  was  looking  so  dirty  and  so  unwashed. 
She  broke  out  with  a  little  cry: 

"Oh,  Simon,  I'm  sorry!" 

"Lucy!"  she  heard  Aunt  Comstock  exclaim. 

Mr.  Laud  had  no  words.  He  looked  truly  pitiful  as 
his  long,  rather  dirty  fingers  sought  the  tablecloth. 
Then  he  laughed. 

"Why,  Lucy,  dear,"  he  said.     "What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  just  what  I've  said,"  she  answered.  "We 
mustn't  marry.  It  would  be  wicked,  because  I  don't 
love  you.  I  knew  from  the  first  that  I  didn't,  but  I  had 
had  no  experience.  I  thought  you  must  all  know  better. 
I  don't  love  you,  and  I  never,  never  will." 

"Lucy!"    Aunt  Comstock  had  risen.     Lucy  had  the 


126         THE  THIRTEEl^  TRAVELLERS 

odd  feeling  that  her  aunt  had  loiown  that  this  moment 
would  come,  and  had  been  waiting  with  eager  anticipa- 
tion for  it.  "Do  you  know  what  you've  said?  But 
you  cant  know.  You're  out  of  your  mind,  you  wicked 
girl.  Here's  Mr.  Laud  come  all  the  way  from  York- 
shire, by  night  too,  just  to  be  with  you  for  a  day  or  two, 
and  you  receive  him  like  this.  Why,  it  was  only  last 
night  that  you  told  me  that  you  wished  he  would  come — 
and  now !     You  must  be  out  of  your  mind !" 

"I'm  not  out  of  my  mind,"  said  Lucy,  "and  I'm  sure 
Simon  wouldn't  wish  me  to  marry  him  if  I  didn't  love 
him." 

"Did  she  really  say  that  last  night,  Mrs.  Comstock  ?" 
said  Mr.  Laud. 

"Indeed  she  did." 

"Only  last  night?" 

"Only  last  night." 

"Ah  well,  then,"  he  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  "it's  all 
right!  I  surprised  her  this  morning.  I  was  too  sud- 
den. I  frightened  you,  Lucy  darling.  Have  some 
breakfast,  and  youUl  feel  quite  differently." 

"She'd  better  feel  differently,"  said  Mrs.  Comstock, 
now  trembling  with  happy  temper.  "I  don't  know 
what  she's  said  this  mad  thing  for,  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Laud, 
considering  how  she's  been  talking  about  you  and  want- 
ing you  all  this  month;  but  a  little  consideration  will 
soon  teach  her. 

"Do  you  know,  Lucy,  what  they  say  of  girls  who  try 
to  behave  as  you're  behaving  ?  Do  you  know  the  name 
the  world  has  for  what  you're  doing  ?    Have  you  thought 


LUCY  MOON"  127 

for  a  moment  of  your  father  and  mother,   and  what 
they'll  say?" 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Lucy.  "But  no  thinking  will 
make  any  difference.       Nothing  will." 

Nevertheless,  there  did  flash  through  her  mind  then 
a  picture  of  what  would  happen  at  Hawkesworth.  She 
had  not  thought  of  Hawkesworth;  she  saw  now  the 
straggling  street,  the  church,  the  high  downs;  she  saw 
the  people  who  had  known  her  since  she  was  a  baby,  she 
saw  her  parents  and  relations.  Yes,  there  would  be  a 
bad  time  to  go  through.  And  for  what  ?  Because  for 
a  moment  a  man  whom  she  did  not  know,  a  man  whom 
she  would  never  see  again,  had  taken  her  hand  in  his ! 
Perhaps  she  was  mad.  She  did  not  know.  She  only 
knew  that  she  would  never  marry  Simon  Laud. 

"Oh,  Simon,  I'm  so  sorry!  I  know  I'm  behaving 
very  badly.  But  it's  better  to  behave  like  that  now 
than  for  us  to  be  unhappy  always." 

He  smiled  at  her  with  confidence. 
"It's  quite  all  right,  Lucy,  dear.     I  understand  per- 
fectly.    You'll  feel  quite  differently  very  soon.     I  sur- 
prised you.     I  shouldn't  have  done  it,  but  I  was  so 
anxious  to  see  you — a  lover's  privilege. 

"Now,"  he  ended  with  that  happy  optimistic  air  that 
he  had  developed  so  happily  in  the  pulpit,  "let  us  all 
have  breakfast,  shall  we  ?" 

Lucy  shook  her  head,  and  then  turned  and  went  back 
to  her  room. 

A  strange  day  followed.  She  sat  there  until  luncheon, 
alone,  hearing  the  soft  buzz  of  the  traffic  below  her 
window,  interrupted  once  by  the  maid,  who,  after  her 


128         THE  THIETEEiq"  TRAVELLERS 

permission  had  been  given,  moved  softly  about  the 
room,  setting  it  to  rights. "  It  was  not  quite  true,  that 
she  was  thinking  during  that  time — it  could  scarcely 
be  called  thought — it  was  rather  that  a  succession  of 
pictures  passed  before  her  brain — her  parents  in  every 
attitude  of  alarm  and  remonstrance  and  command,  the 
village  and  its  gossips,  long  long  imprisonment  beneath 
those  high  downs,  and  finally  her  parents  again.  How 
strange  it  was  that  last  night's  little  incident  should 
have  illuminated  everything  in  her  life,  and  nothing 
more  surely  than  her  father  and  mother!  How  queer 
that  a  strange  young  man,  with  whom  in  all  her  life 
she  had  exchanged  only  one  or  two  words,  should  have 
told  her  more  of  her  own  people  than  all  her  living  with 
them  could ! 

She  faced  her  people  for  the  first  time — she  knew 
them  to  be  hard,  narrow,  provincial,  selfish,  intolerant. 
She  loved  them  just  as  she  had  done  before,  because  with 
those  other  qualities,  they  were  also  tender,  compas- 
sionate, loving,  unselfish. 

But  she  saw  now  quite  clearly  what  living  with  them 
would  be. 

She  intended  to  ruin  the  peace  and  prosperity  of  her 
future  life  because  she  had  met  a  stranger  (for  a  sec- 
ond) whom  she  would  never  see  again!  That  was  the 
truth.  .  .  .  She  accepted  it  without  a  tremor. 

It  was  also  true  that  that  stranger,  by  meeting  her, 
had  made  her  live  for  the  first  time. 

Better  live  uncomfortably  than  merely  pretend  to 
live,  or  to  think  you  loved  when  you  did  not.     Why, 


LUCY  MOOK  129 

now  she  thought  of  it,  nearly  everyone  in  the  world 
was  dead ! 

She  was  summoned  to  luncheon.  It  amused,  and  at 
the  same  time  touched  her,  to  see  how  Aunt  Comstock 
and  Simon  covered  up  the  morning's  mistake  with  a 
cheerful  pretence  that  it  had  never  occurred. 

Luncheon  was  all  chatter — musical  chatter,  clerical 
chatter  ...  hearty  laughter.  Lucy  submitted  to 
everything.     She  submitted  to  an  afternoon  drive. 

It  was  during  the  drive  that  she  learned  that  on  the 
very  next  morning,  by  the  10:15  train,  Simon  would 
lead  her  back  to  Hawkesworth.  When  she  heard  that  her 
heart  gave  a  wild  leap  of  rebellion.  She  looked  desper- 
ately about  her.  Could  she  not  escape  from  the  carriage, 
run  and  run  until  the  distant  streets  hid  her  ?  She  had 
no  money ;  she  had  nothing.  If  only  she  could  remain 
a  few  days  longer  in  London  she  felt  that  she  would  be 
sure  to  meet  her  friend  again.  Maddening  to  be  so 
near  and  then  to  miss!  She  thought  of  bursting  out 
into  some  wild  protest — one  glance  at  their  faces 
showed  her  how  hopeless  that  would  be !  Hawkesworth ! 
Prison ! 

Then  she  felt  her  new  life  and  vitality  glow  and 
sparkle  in  her  veins.  After  all,  Hawkesworth  was  not 
the  end.     The  end !    I^o,  the  beginning.  .  .  . 

That  night  they  were,  oh !  so  kind  to  her ! — laughing, 
granting  her  anything  that  she  might  ask — oh!  so 
tactful ! 

"Poor  Lucy,"  she  could  hear  them  say,  "she  had  a 
fit  of  hysteria  this  morning.  This  London  has  been  bad 
for  her.     She  mustn't  come  here  again — never  again !" 


130         THE  THIETEEI^  TEAVELLEKS 

In  tlie  morning  the  taxi  was  there,  the  bags  were 
packed. 

In  the  pretty  green  and  white  hall  with  the  gi'and- 
father's  clock,  when  Lucj  tipped  Eanny,  the  Portress, 
she  whispered  to  her,  "I'm  coming  back.  Thev  don't 
think  I  am — ^but  I  know  I  am.  And  if  anyone — anyone 
— should  ask  for  me,  describe  me,  you  know,  so  that  you 
are  sure  it's  me,  write  to  me  at  this  address." 

Fanny  smiled  and  nodded.  "Now,  Lucy,  dear,"  cried 
Aunt  Comstock,  'Hhe  cab's  waiting." 

She  was  sitting  in  it  opposite  to  Simon,  who  looked 
clean,  but  ridiculous  on  one  of  these  uncomfortable 
third-party  seats.  They  started  up  Duke  Street,  and 
turned  into  Piccadilly. 

"I  do  hope  you'll  have  a  nice  journey,  Lucy.  It's  a 
fine  day,  and  I've  got  some  chocolate.  .  .  ." 

Are  not  these  things  arranged  by  God  ? 

The  cab  was  stopped  by  trafiic  just  close  to  St. 
James's  Church.  Lucy,  truly  captured  now  like  a 
mouse  in  a  trap,  glanced  with  a  last  wild  look  through 
the  windows.  A  moment  later  she  had  tumbled  over 
Simon's  knees  and  burst  open  the  door.  She  was  in  the 
street.  As  she  ran  she  was  conscious  of  whistles  sound- 
ing, boys  calling,  the  green  trees  of  St.  James's  blowing. 
She  had  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"I  saw  you.  ...  I  couldn't  help  it.  ...  I  had  to 
speak.  .  .  ."  She  was  out  of  breath.  Wlien  he  turned 
and  the  light  of  recognition  flamed  into  his  eyes,  she 
could  have  died  with  happiness.  He  caught  her  hand. 
He  stammered  with  joy. 

"Everywhere,"   he   said,    "I've  been   looking  .  ,  , 


LUCY  Moo:Nr  131 

hoping  .  .  .  I've  walked  about.  .  .  .  I've  never  thought 
of  anything  else.  .  .  ." 

'"Quick,"  she  said.  ''I've  no  time.  They're  in  the 
cab  there.  It's  our  last  chance.  Can  you  remember 
this  without  writing  it  down  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well — Lucy  Moon,  The  Rectory,  Hawkesworth,  N. 
Yorkshire.  KES  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Write  at  once.  .  .  ." 

Even  in  her  agitation  she  noticed  the  strength  and 
confidence  of  his  smile. 

"I'll  write  to-day,"  he  assured  her.  ''You're  not 
married  ?" 

"No.     It's  Miss." 

"I'm  not  either."  He  caught  her  hand.  "I'U  find 
you  before  the  week's  out." 

She  fled.  She  was  in  the  cab.  Aunt  Comstock  and 
Simon  regarded  her  with  terrified  eyes. 

"Lucy,  dear — How  could  you?  What  were  you 
about  ?    The  train.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  it  was  a  friend!  I  had  to  say  good-bye.  He 
didn't  know  I  was  going  so  soon." 

She  felt  that  her  happiness  would  stifle  her.  She 
flung  open  the  other  window.  She  looked  at  them  both 
and  felt  the  tenderest  pity  because  they  seemed  so  old, 
so  cross,  so  dead. 

She  bent  over  and  kissed  her  aunt. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  that  lady,  with  an  air  of  intense 
relief.  "Now  you'll  be  all  right,  Lucy  darling.  You'll 
just  have  Mr.  Laud  to  look  after  you." 

"Yes !"  cried  Lucy.  "Now  I'm  all  right.  .  .  .  Come 
along,  Simon,  or  we'll  miss  the  train." 


VII 
imS.  POETER  AND  MISS  ALLE:N' 

0!N1E  of  the  largest  flats  on  the  fourth  floor  of 
Hortons  was  taken  in  March,  1919,  by  a  Mrs. 
Porter,  a  widow.  The  flat  was  seen,  and  all  business  in 
connection  with  it  was  done,  by  a  Miss  Allen,  her  lady 
companion.  Mr.  IsTix,  who  considered  himself  a  sound 
and  trenchant  judge  of  human  nature,  liked  Miss  Allen 
from  the  first;  and  then  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Porter  he 
liked  her  too.  These  were  just  the  tenants  for  Hortons 
— modest,  gentle  ladies  with  ample  means  and  no 
extravagant  demands  on  human  nature.  Mrs.  Porter 
was  one  of  those  old  ladies,  now,  alas,  in  our  turbulent 
times,  less  and  less  easy  to  discover — "something 
straight  out  of  a  book,"  Mr.  'Nix  called  her.  She  was 
little  and  fragile,  dressed  in  silver  grey,  forehead  puck- 
ered a  little  with  a  sort  of  anticipation  of  being  a  trial 
to  others,  her  voice  cultured,  soft,  a  little  remote  like 
the  chime  of  a  distant  clock.  She  moved  with  gestures 
a  little  deprecatory,  a  little  resigned,  extremely  modest 
— she  would  not  disturb  anyone  for  the  world.  .  .  . 

Miss  Allen  was,  of  coui'se,  another  type — a  woman 
of  perhaps  forty  years  of  age,  refined,  quiet,  efficient, 
her  dark  hair,  turning  now  a  little  gi'ey,  waved  deco- 
rously from  her  high  white  forehead,  pince-nez,  eyes  of 
a  grave,  considering  brown,  a  woman  resigned,  after,  it 

132 


MRS.  PORTER  AND  MISS  ALLEN      133 

miglit  be,  abandoning  young  ambitions  for  a  place  of 
modest  and  decent  labour  in  the  world — one  might  still 
see,  in  the  rather  humorous  smile  that  she  bestowed  once 
and  again  upon  men  and  things,  the  hint  of  defiance  at 
the  necessity  that  forced  abnegation. 

Miss  Allen  had  not  been  in  Mrs.  Porter's  service  for 
very  long.  Wearied  with  the  exactions  of  a  family  of 
children  whose  idle  and  uninspiring  intelligences  she 
was  attempting  to  governess,  she  answered,  at  the  end 
of  1918,  an  advertisement  in  the  "Agony"  column  of 
The  Times,  that  led  her  to  Mrs.  Porter.  She  loved  Mrs. 
Porter  at  first  sight. 

''Why,  she's  a  dear  old  lady,"  she  exclaimed  to  her 
ironic  spirit — "dear  old  ladies"  being  in  those  days  as 
rare  as  crinolines.  She  was  of  the  kind  for  which  Miss 
Allen  had  unconsciously  been  looking :  generous,  gentle, 
refined,  and  intelligent.  Moreover,  she  had,  within  the 
last  six  months,  been  left  quite  alone  in  the  world — Mr. 
Porter  had  died  of  apoplexy  in  August,  1918.  He  had 
left  her  very  wealthy,  and  Miss  Allen  discovered 
quickly  in  the  old  lady  a  rather  surprising  desire  to  see 
and  enjoy  life — surprising,  because  old  ladies  of 
seventy-one  years  of  age  and  of  Mrs.  Porter's  gentle 
appearance  do  not,  as  a  rule,  care  for  noise  and  bustle 
and  the  buzz  of  youthful  energy. 

"I  want  to  be  in  the  very  middle  of  things,  dear 
Miss  Allen,"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  "right  in  the  very  mid- 
dle. We  lived  at  Wimbledon  long  enough,  Henry  and 
I — it  wasn't  good  for  either  of  us.  Find  me  somewhere 
within  two  minutes  of  all  the  best  theatres." 

Miss  Allen  found  Hortons,   which   is,   as  everyone 


134        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

knows,  in  Duke  Street,  just  behind  Piccadilly  and 
Fortnum  and  Mason's,  and  Hatchard's  and  the  Ham- 
mam  Turkish  Baths  and  the  Royal  Academy  and 
Scott's  hat-shop  and  Jackson's  Jams — how  could  you 
be  more  perfectly  in  the  centre  of  London  ? 

Then  Miss  xlllen  discovered  a  curious  thing — namely, 
that  Mrs.  Porter  did  not  wish  to  keep  a  single  piece, 
fragment,  or  vestige  of  her  Wimbledon  effects.  She 
insisted  on  an  auction — everything  was  sold.  Miss 
Allen  attempted  a  remonstrance — some  of  the  things  in 
the  Wimbledon  house  were  very  fine,  handsome,  solid 
mid- Victorian  sideboards  and  cupboards,  and  chairs  and 
tables. 

''You  really  have  no  idea,  Mrs.  Porter,"  said  Miss 
Allen,  "of  the  cost  of  furniture  these  days.  It  is  quite 
terrible;  you  will  naturally  get  a  wonderful  price  for 
your  things,  but  the  difficulty  of  buying " 

Mrs.  Porter  was  determined.  She  nodded  her  bright 
bird-like  head,  tapped  with  her  delicate  fingers  on  the 
table  and  smiled  at  Miss  Allen. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  dear.  I  know  it's  tiresome  for 
you,  but  I  have  my  reasons."  It  was  not  tiresome  at  all 
for  Miss  Allen;  she  loved  to  buy  pretty  new  things  at 
someone  else's  expense,  but  it  was  now,  for  the  first 
time,  that  she  began  to  wonder  how  dearly  Mrs. 
Porter  had  loved  her  husband. 

Through  the  following  weeks  this  became  her  prin- 
cipal preoccupation — Mr.  Henry  Porter.  She  could 
not  have  explained  to  herself  why  this  was.  She  was 
not,  by  nature,  an  inquisitive  and  scandal-loving  woman, 
nor  was  she  unusually  imaginative.     People  did  not, 


MRS.  PORTEE  Al^D  MISS  ALLEN      135 

as  a  rule,  occur  to  her  as  existing  unless  she  saw  them 
physically  there  in  front  of  her.  I^evertheless  she  spent 
a  good  deal  of  her  time  in  considering  Mr.  Porter. 

She  was  able  to  make  the  Horton  flat  very  agreeable. 
Mrs.  Porter  wanted  ''life  and  colour,"  so  the  sitting- 
room  tiad  curtains  with  pink  roses  and  a  bright  yellow 
cage  with  two  canaries,  and  several  pretty  water- 
colours,  and  a  handsome  fire-screen  with  golden  pea- 
cocks, and  a  deep  Turkish  carpet,  soft  and  luxurious  to 
the  feet.  ISTot  one  thing  from  the  Wimbledon  house 
was  there,  not  any  single  picture  of  Mr.  Porter.  The 
next  thing  that  Miss  Allen  discovered  was  that  Mrs. 
Porter  was  nervous. 

Although  Hortons  sheltered  many  human  beings 
within  its  boundaries,  it  was,  owing  to  the  thickness 
of  its  walls  and  the  beautiful  training  of  Mr.  ISTix's 
servants,  a  very  quiet  place.  It  had  been  even  called 
in  its  day  "cloistral."  It  simply  shared  with  London 
that  amazing  and  never-to-be-overlauded  gift  of  being 
able  to  offer,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  trafiic  of  the 
world,  little  green  spots  of  quiet  and  tranquillity.  It 
seemed,  after  a  week  or  two,  that  it  was  almost  too 
quiet  for  Mrs.  Porter. 

"Open  a  window,  Lucy  dear,  won't  you,"  she  said. 
"I  like  to  hear  the  omnibuses." 

It  was  a  chill  evening  in  early  April,  but  Miss  Allen 
threw  up  the  window.  They  sat  there  listening.  There 
was  no  sound,  only  suddenly,  as  though  to  accentuate 
the  silence,  St.  James's  Church  clock  strack  the  quar- 
ter. Then  an  omnibus  rumbled,  rattled,  and  was  gone. 
The  room  was  more  silent  than  before. 


136         THE  THIKTEEN  TEAVELLERS 

''Shall  I  read  to  you  ?"  said  Miss  Allen. 

"Yes,  dear,  do."  And  they  settled  down  to  Martin 
Chuzzlewit. 

Mrs.  Porter's  apprehensiveness  became  more  and 
more  evident.  She  was  so  dear  an  old  lady,  and  had 
won  so  completely  Miss  Allen's  heart,  that  that  kindly 
woman  could  not  bear  to  see  her  suffer.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  wanted  to  ask  questions.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  there  must  b©  some  very  strange  reason  for 
Mrs.  Porter's  silences.  She  was  not  by  nature  a  silent 
old  lady;  she  talked  continually,  seemed,  indeed,  posi- 
tively to  detest  the  urgency  of  silence.  She  especially 
loved  to  tell  Miss  Allen  about  her  early  days.  She  had 
grown  up  as  a  girl  in  Plymouth,  and  she  could  remem- 
ber all  the  events  of  that  time — tlie  balls,  the  walks  on 
the  Hoe,  the  shops,  the  summer  visits  into  Glebeshire, 
the  old  dark  house  with  the  high  garden  walls,  the 
cuckoo  clock  and  the  pictures  of  the  strange  old  ships 
in  which  her  father,  who  was  a  retired  sea-captain,  had 
sailed.  She  could  not  tell  Miss  Allen  enough  about 
these  things,  but  so  soon  as  she  arrived  at  her  engage- 
ment to  Mr.  Porter  there  was  silence.  London 
shrouded  her  married  life  with  its  thick,  grey  pall. 
She  hated  that  Miss  Allen  should  leave  her.  She  was 
very  generous  about  Miss  Allen's  freedom,  always  beg- 
ging her  to  take  an  afternoon  or  evening  and  amuse 
herself  with  her  own  friends ;  but  Miss  Allen  had  very- 
few  friends,  and  on  her  return  from  an  expedition  she 
always  found  the  old  lady  miserable,  frightened,  and 
bewildered.  She  found  that  she  loved  her,  that  she 
cared  for  her  as  she  had  cared  for  no  human  being 


MRS.  POETER  AND  MISS  ALLEN      137 

for  many  years,  so  she  stayed  witli  her  and  read  to  her 
and  talked  to  her,  and  saw  less  and  less  of  the  outside 
world. 

The  two  ladies  made  occasionally  an  expedition  to 
a  theatre  or  a  concert,  but  these  adventures,  although 
they  "Were  anticipated  with  eagerness  and  pleasure, 
were  always  in  the  event  disappointing.  Mrs.  Porter 
loved  the  theatre — especially  did  she  adore  plays  of 
sentiment — plays  where  young  people  were  happily 
united — where  old  people  sat  cosily  together  reminis- 
cing over  a  blazing  fire,  where  surly  guardians  were 
suddenly  generous,  and  poor  orphan  girls  were  unex- 
pectedly given  fortunes. 

Mrs.  Porter  started  her  evening  with  eager  excite- 
ment. She  dressed  for  the  occasion,  putting  on  her 
best  lace  cap,  her  cameo  brooch,  her  smartest  shoes.  A 
taxi  came  for  them,  and  they  always  had  the  best  stalls, 
near  the  front,  so  that  the  old  lady  should  not  miss  a 
word.  Miss  Allen  noticed,  however,  that  very  quickly 
Mrs.  Porter  began  to  be  disturbed.  She  would  glance 
around  the  theatre  and  soon  her  colour  would  fade,  her 
hands  begin  to  tremble;  then,  perhaps  at  the  end  of 
the  first  act,  perhaps  later,  a  little  hand  would  press 
Miss  Allen's  arm : 

"I  think,  dear,  if  you  don't  mind — I'm  tired — shall 
we  not  go?" 

After  a  little  while  Miss  Allen  suggested  the  Cinema. 
Mrs.  Porter  received  the  idea  with  eagerness.  They 
went  to  the  West-End  house,  and  the  first  occasion  was 
a  triumphant  success.  How  Mrs.  Porter  loved  it! 
Just  the  kind  of  a  story  for  her — Mary  Pickford  in 


138         THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

Daddy  Long  Legs.  To  tell  tlie  trutli,  ]\Irs.  Porter  cried 
her  eyes  out.  She  swore  that  she  had  never  in  her  life 
enjoyed  anything  so  much.  And  the  music!  How 
beautiful !  How  restful !  They  would  go  every 
week.  .  .  . 

The  second  occasion  was,  unfortunately,  disastrous. 
The  story  was  one  of  modern  life,  a  woman  persecuted 
hy  her  husband,  driven  by  his  brutality  into  the  arms 
of  her  lover.  The  husband  was  the  customary  cinema 
villain — broad,  stout,  sneering,  and  over-dressed.  Mrs. 
Porter  fainted  and  had  to  be  carried  out  by  two  attend- 
ants. A  doctor  came  to  see  her,  said  that  she  was 
suffering  from  nervous  exhaustion  and  must  be  protected 
from  all  excitement.  .  .  .  The  two  ladies  sat  now  every 
evening  in  their  pretty  sitting-room,  and  Miss  Allen 
read  aloud  the  novels  of  Dickens  one  after  the  other. 

More  and  more  persistently,  in  spite  of  herself,  did 
curiosity  about  the  late  Mr.  Porter  drive  itself  in  upon 
Miss  Allen.  She  told  herself  that  curiosity  itself  was 
vulgar  and  unworthy  of  the  philosophy  that  she  had 
created  for  herself  out  of  life.  ISTevertheless  it  per- 
sisted. Soon  she  felt  that,  after  all,  it  was  justified. 
Were  she  to  help  this  poor  old  lady  to  whom  she  was 
now  most  deeply  attached,  she  must  know  more.  She 
could  not  give  her  any  real  help  unless  she  might  gauge 
more  accurately  her  trouble — but  she  was  a  shy  woman, 
shy,  especially,  of  forcing  personal  confidences.  She 
hesitated ;  then  she  was  aware  that  a  barrier  was  being 
created  between  them.  The  evening  had  many  silences, 
and  Miss  Allen  detected  many  strange,   surreptitious 


MRS.  PORTER  AND  MISS  ALLEN      139 

glances  thrown  at  her  by  the  old  lady.  The  situation 
was  impossible.     One  night  she  asked  her  a  question. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Porter,"  she  said,  her  heart  beating 
strangely  as  she  sjx)ke,  "I  do  hope  that  you  will  not 
think  me  impertinent,  but  you  have  been  so  good  to  me 
that  5«ou  have  made  me  love  you.  You  are  suffering, 
and  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  unhappy.  I  want,  oh,  so 
eagerly,  to  help  you !     Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  ?" 

Mrs.  Porter  said  nothing.  Her  hands  quivered ;  then 
a  tear  stole  down  her  cheek.  Miss  Allen  went  over  to 
her,  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"You  must  let  me  help  you,"  she  said.  "Dismiss 
me  if  I  am  asking  you  questions  that  I  should  not.  But 
I  would  rather  leave  you  altogether,  happy  though  1 
am  with  you,  than  see  you  so  miserable.  Tell  me  what 
I  can  do." 

"You  can  do  nothing,  Lucy  dear,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"But  I  must  be  able  to  do  something.  You  are  keep- 
ing from  me  some  secret " 

Mrs.  Porter  shook  her  head.  .  .  . 

It  was  one  evening  in  early  May  that  Miss  Allen  was 
suddenly  conscious  that  there  was  something  wrong 
with  the  pretty  little  sitting-room,  and  it  was  shortly 
after  her  first  consciousness  of  this  that  poor  old  Mrs. 
Porter  revealed  her  secret.  Miss  Allen,  looking  up  for 
a  moment,  fancied  that  the  little  white  marble  clock 
on  the  mantelpiece  had  ceased  to  tick. 

She  looked  across  the  room,  and  for  a  strange 
moment  fancied  that  slie  could  see  neither  the  clock 
nor  the  mantelpiece — a  grey  dimness  filled  her  sight. 
She  shook  herself,  glanced  down  at  her  hands,  looked  up 


140        THE  THIKTEEN  TEAVELLERS 

for  reassurance,  and  found  Mrs.  Porter,  with  wide, 
terrified  eyes,  staring  at  her,  her  hands  trembling 
against  the  wood  of  the  table. 

''What  is  it,  Lucy?" 

":N"othing,  Mrs.  Porter." 

"Did  you  see  something  ?" 

"ITo,  dear." 

"Oh,  I  thought  ...  I  thought  .  .  ."  Suddenly  the 
old  lady,  with  a  fierce  impetuous  movement,  pushed  the 
table  away  from  her.  She  got  up,  staggered  for  a 
moment  on  her  feet,  then  tumbled  to  the  pink  sofa, 
cowering  there,  huddled,  her  sharp,  fingers  pressing 
against  her  face. 

"Oh,  I  can't  bear  it.  ...  I  can't  bear  it.  ...  I 
can't  bear  it  any  more!  He's  coming.  He's  coming. 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do?    What  shall  I  do?" 

Miss  Allen,  feeling  nothing  but  love  and  affection  for 
her  friend,  but  realising  strangely  too  the  dim  and 
muted  attention  of  the  room,  knelt  down  beside  the  sofa 
and  put  her  strong  anns  around  the  trembling,  fragile 
body. 

"What  is  it  ?  Dear,  dear  Mrs.  Porter.  What  is  it  ? 
Who  is  coming  ?    Of  whom  are  you  afraid  ?" 

"Henry's  coming!  Henry,  who  hated  me.  He's 
coming  to  carry  me  away!" 

"But  Mr.  Porter's  dead !" 

"Yes.  .  .  ."  The  little  voice  was  now  the  merest 
whisper.  "But  he'll  come  all  the  same.  .  .  .  He 
always  does  what  he  says!" 

The  two  women  waited,  listening.  Miss  Allen  could 
hear  the  old  lady's  heart  thumping  and  leaping  clcse 


MRS.  PORTER  AND  MISS  ALLEN      141 

to  her  own.  Through  the  opened  windows  came  the 
sibilant  rumble  of  the  motor-buses.  Then  Mrs.  Porter 
gently  pushed  Miss  Allen  away.  "Sit  on  a  chair,  Lucy 
dear.  I  must  tell  you  everything.  I  must  share  this 
with  someone." 

She -seemed  to  have  regained  some  of  her  calmness. 
She  sat  straight  up  upon  the  sofa,  patting  her  lace  cap 
with  her  hands,  feeling  for  the  cameo  brooch  at  her 
breast.  Miss  Allen  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  sofa  ;  turn- 
ing again  towards  the  mantelpiece,  she  saw  that  it 
stood  out  boldly  and  clearly ;  the  tick  of  the  clock  came 
across  to  her  with  almost  startling  urgency. 

"jSTow,  dear  Mrs.  Porter,  what  is  it  that  is  alarming 
you  ?"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Porter  cleared  her  throat.  'TTou  know,  Lucy, 
that  I  was  married  a  great  many  years  ago.  I  was 
only  a  very  young  girl  at  the  time,  very  ignorant  of 
course,  and  you  can  understand,  my  dear,  that  my 
father  and  mother  influenced  me  very  deeply.  They 
liked  Mr.  Porter.  They  thought  that  he  would  make 
me  a  good  husband  and  that  I  should  be  very  happy. 
...  I  was  not  happy,  Lucy  dear,  never  from  the  veiy 
first  moment!" 

Here  Mrs.  Porter  put  out  her  hand  and  took  Miss 
Allen's  strong  one.  "I  am  very  willing  to  believe  that 
much  of  the  unhappiness  was  due  to  myself.  I  was  % 
young,  foolish  girl;  I  was  disturbed  from  the  very 
first  by  the  stories  that  Mr.  Porter  told  me,  and  the 
pictures  he  showed  me.  I  was  foolish  about  those 
things.  He  saw  that  they  shocked  me,  and  I  think  that 
that  amused  him.     From  the  first  it  delighted  him  to 


142         THE  THIKTEEI^  TKAVELLEKS 

tease  me.  Then — soon — lie  tired  of  me.  He  liad  mis- 
tresses. He  brought  them  to  our  house.  He  insulted 
me  in  every  way  possible.  I  had  years  of  that  misery. 
God  only  knows  how  I  lived  through  it.  It  became  a 
habit  with  him  to  frighten  and  shock  me.  It  was  a 
game  that  he  loved  to  play.  I  think  he  wanted  to  see 
how  far  I  would  go.  But  I  was  patient  through  all 
those  many  years.  Oh !  so  patient !  It  was  weak,  per- 
haps, but  there  seemed  nothing  else  for  me  to  be. 

"The  last  twenty  years  of  our  married  life  he  hated 
me  most  bitterly.  He  said  that  I  had  scorned  him, 
that  I  had  not  given  him  children,  that  I  had  wasted 
his  money — a  thousand  different  things !  He  tortured 
me,  frightened  me,  disgusted  me,  but  it  never  seemed 
to  be  enough  for  him,  for  the  vengeance  he  felt  I 
deserved.  Then  one  day  he  discovered  that  he  had  a 
weak  heart — a  doctor  frightened  him.  He  saw  perhaps 
for  a  moment  in  my  eyes  my  consciousness  of  my  pos- 
sible freedom.  He  took  my  arm  and  shook  me,  bent 
his  face  close  to  mine,  and  said:  'Ah,  you  think  that 
after  I'm  dead  you  will  be  free.  You  are  wrong.  I 
will  leave  you  everything  that  I  possess,  and  then — just 
as  you  begin  to  enjoy  it — I  will  come  and  fetch  you !' 
What  a  thing  to  say,  Lucy,  dear !  He  was  mad,  and  so 
was  I  to  listen  to  him.  All  those  years  of  married  life 
together  had  perhaps  turned  both  our  brains.  Six 
months  later  he  fell  down  in  the  street  dead.  They 
brought  him  home,  and  all  that  summer  afternoon,  my 
dear,  I  sat  beside  him  in  the  bedroom,  he  all  dressed  in 
his  best  clothes  and  his  patent  leather  shoes,  and  the 
band  playing  in  the  Square  outside.    Oh !  he  was  dead, 


MRS.  PORTER  AND  MISS  ALLEX       143 

Lucy  dear,  he  was  indeed.  For  a  week  or  two  I 
thought  that  he  was  gone  altogether.  I  was  happy  and 
free.  Then — oh,  I  don't  know — I  began  to  imagine 
...  to  fancy.  ...  I  moved  from  Wimbledon.  I 
advertised  for  someone,  and  you  came.  "We  moved 
here.  '.  .  .  It  ought  to  be  ...  it  is  ...  it  must  be 
all  right,  Lucy  dear;  hold  me,  hold  me  tight!  Don't 
let  me  go !    He  cant  come  back !     Hb  can't,  he  can't !" 

She  broke  into  passionate  sobbing,  cowering  back  on 
to  the  sofa  as  she  had  done  before.  The  two  women 
sat  there,  comforting  one  another.  Miss  Allen  gath- 
ered the  frail,  trembling  little  body  into  her  arms,  and 
like  a  mother  with  her  child,  soothed  it. 

But,  as  she  sat  there,  she  realised  with  a  chill  shud- 
der of  alarm  that  moment,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before^ 
when  the  room  had  been  dimmed  and  the  clock  stilled. 
Had  that  been  fancy  ?  Had  some  of  Mrs.  Porter's 
terror  seized  her  in  sympathy?  Were  they  simply 
two  lonely  women  whose  nerves  were  jagged  by  the 
quiet  monotony  and  seclusion  of  their  lives  ?  Why 
was  it  that  from  the  first  she,  so  unimaginative  and 
definite,  should  have  been  disturbed  by  the  thought  of 
Mr.  Porter  ?  Why  was  it  that  even  now  she  longed  to 
know  more  surely  alwut  him,  his  face,  his  clothes,  his 
height  .  .  .  everything. 

"You  must  go  to  bed,  dear.  You  are  tired  out. 
Your  nerves  have  never  recovered  from  the  time  of 
Mr.  Porter's  death.  That's  what  it  is.  .  .  .  You  must 
go  to  bed,  dear." 

Mrs.  Porter  went.  She  seemed  to  be  relieved  by  her 
outburst.     She  felt  perhaps  now  less  lonely.     It  seemed. 


144        THE  THIETEEX  TEAYELLEKS 

too,  that  she  had  less  to  fear  now  that  she  had  betrayed 
her  ghost  into  sunlight.  She  slept  better  that  night 
than  she  had  done  for  a  long  time  past.  Miss  Allen 
sat  beside  the  bed  staring  into  the  darkness,  think- 
ing. .  .  . 

For  a  week  after  this  they  were  happy.  Mrs.  Porter 
was  in  high  spirits.  They  went  to  the  Coliseum  and 
heard  Miss  Florence  Smithson  sing  "Koses  of  Picardy," 
and  in  the  Cinema  they  were  delighted  with  the  charm 
and  simplicity  of  Ahna  Taylor.  Mrs.  Porter  lost  her 
heart  to  Alma  Taylor.  "That's  a  sweet  girl,"  she  said. 
"I  would  like  to  meet  her.  I'm  sure  she's  good."  "I'm 
sure  she  is,"  said  Miss  Allen.  Mrs.  Porter  made  friends 
in  the  flat.  Mr.  Nix  met  them  one  day  at  the  bottom 
of  the  lift  and  talked  to  them  so  pleasantly.  "What 
a  gentleman !"  said  Mrs.  Porter  afterwards  as  she  took 
off  her  bonnet. 

Then  one  evening  Miss  xlllen  came  into  the  sittings 
room  and  stopped  dead,  frozen  rigid  on  the  threshold. 
Someone  was  in  the  room.  She  did  not  at  first  think  of 
Mr.  Porter.  She  was  only  sure  that  someone  was 
there.  Mrs.  Porter  was  in  her  bedroom  changing  her 
dress. 

Miss  Allen  said,  "Who's  there?"  She  walked  for- 
ward. The  dim  evening  saffron  light  powdered  the 
walls  with  trembling  colour.  The  canaries  twittered, 
the  clock  ticked ;  no  one  was  there.  After  that  instant 
of  horror  she  was  to  know  no  relief.  It  was  as  though 
that  spoken  "Who's  there  ?"  had  admitted  her  into  the 
open  acceptance  of  a  fact  that  she  ought  for  ever  to  have 
denied. 


MES.  PORTER  AND  MISS  ALLEN      145 

She  was  a  woman  of  common  sense,  of  rational 
thought,  scornful  of  superstition  and  sentiment.  She 
realised  now  that  there  was  something  quite  definite  for 
her  to  fight,  something  as  definite  as  disease,  as  pain, 
as  poverty  and  hunger.  She  realised  too  that  she  wasi 
there  to  protect  Mrs.  Porter  from  ever}'thing — yes,  from 
everything  and  everybody! 

Her  first  thought  was  to  escape  from  the  flat,  and 
especially  from  everything  in  the  flat — from  the  pink 
sofa,  the  gate-legged  table,  the  bird-cage  and  the  clock. 
She  saw  then  that,  if  she  yielded  to  this  desire,  they 
would  be  driven,  the  two  of  them,  into  perpetual  flight, 
and  that  the  very  necessity  of  escaping  would  only 
admit  the  more  the  conviction  of  defeat.  No,  they 
must  stay  where  they  were ;  that  place  was  their  battle- 
ground. 

She  determined,  too,  that  Mr.  Porter's  name  should 
not  be  mentioned  between  them  again.  Mrs.  Porter 
must  be  assured  that  she  had  forgotten  his  very  exist- 
ence. 

Soon  she  arrived  at  an  exact  knowledge  of  the  arrival 
of  these  "attacks,"  as  she  called  them.  That  month  of 
May  gave  them  wonderful  weather.  The  evenings  were 
so  beautiful  that  they  sat  always  with  the  windows  open 
behind  them,  and  the  dim  colour  of  the  night-glow  soft- 
ened the  lamplight  and  brought  with  it  scents  and 
breezes  and  a  happy  murmurous  undertone.  She 
received  again  and  again  in  these  May  evenings  that 
earlier  impression  of  someone's  entrance  into  the  room. 
It  came  to  her,  as  she  sat  with  her  back  to  the  fire- 
place, with  the  conviction  that  a  pair  of  eyes  were 


146        THE  THIKTEEN  TEAVELLEES 

staring  at  her.  Those  eyes  willed  her  to  him,  and  she 
would  not;  but  soon  she  seemed  to  know  them,  cold, 
hard,  and  separated  from  her,  she  fancied,  by  glasses. 
They  seemed,  too,  to  bend  dowm  upon  her  from  a 
-height.  She  was  desperately  conscious  at  these  mo- 
ments of  Mrs.  Porter.  Was  the  old  lady  also  aware? 
She  could  not  tell.  Mrs.  Porter  still  cast  at  her  those 
odd,  furtive  glances,  as  though  to  see  whether  she  sus- 
pected anything,  but  she  never  looked  at  the  fireplace 
nor  started  as  though  the  door  was  suddenly  opened. 

There  were  times  when  Miss  Allen,  relaxing  her 
self-control,  admitted  without  hesitation  that  someone 
was  in  the  room.  He  was  tall,  wore  spectacles  behind 
which  he  scornfully  peered.  She  challenged  him  to  pass 
her  guard  and  even  felt  the  stiff  pride  of  a  victorious 
battle.  They  were  fighting  for  the  old  lady,  and  she  was 
winning.  .  .  . 

At  all  other  moments  she  scorned  herself  for  this 
weakness.  Mrs.  Porter's  nerves  had  affected  her  own. 
She  had  not  believed  that  she  could  be  so  weak.  Then, 
suddenly,  one  evening  Mrs.  Porter  dropped  her  cards, 
crumpled  down  into  her  chair,  screamed,  "Xo,  no  .  .  . 
Lucy!  .  .  .  Lucy!     He's  here!  .  .  ." 

She  was  strangely,  at  the  moment  of  that  cry,  aware 
of  no  presence  in  the  room.  It  was  only  when  she  had 
gathered  her  friend  into  her  arms,  persuading  her  that 
there  was  nothing,  loving  her,  petting  her,  that  she  was 
conscious  of  the  dimming  of  the  light,  the  stealthy  with- 
drawal of  sound.  She  was  facing  the  fireplace;  before 
the  mantelpiece  there  seemed  to  her  to  hover  a  shadow, 
something  so  tenuous  that  it  resembled  a  film  of  dust 


MES.  POETER  AXD  MISS  ALLEN    147 

against  the  glow  of  electric  light.     She  faced  it  with 
steady  eyes  and  a  fearless  heart- 
But   against  her  will   her   soul   admitted   that  con- 
frontation.   Erom  that  moment  Mrs.  Porter  abandoned 
disguise.     Her  terror  was  now  so  persistent  that  soon, 
of  its^f,  it  would  kill  her.    There  was  no  remedy ;  doc- 
tors could  not  help,  nor  change  of  scene.     Only  if  Miss 
Allen  still  saw  and  felt  nothing  could  the  old  lady  still 
hope.    Miss  Allen  lied  and  lied  again  and  again. 
"You  saw  nothing,  Lucy  ?" 
"l^othing." 

"I^ot  there  by  the  fireplace  ?" 
"ISTothing,  dear.  ...  Of  course,  nothing!" 
Events  from  then  moved  quickly,  and  they  moved 
for  Miss  Allen  quite  definitely  in  the  hardening  of  the 
sinister  shadow.  She  led  now  a  triple  existence:  one 
life  was  Mrs.  Porter's,  devoted  to  her,  delivered  over 
to  her,  helping  her,  protecting  her ;  the  second  life  was 
her  own,  her  rational,  practical  self,  scornful  of  shadow 
and  of  the  terror  of  death;  the  third  was  the  struggle 
with  Henry  Porter,  a  struggle  now  as  definite  and  con- 
crete as  though  he  were  a  blackmailer  confining  her 
liberty. 

She  could  never  tell  when  he  would  come,  and  with 
every  visit  that  he  paid  he  seemed  to  advance  in  her 
realisation  of  him.  It  appeared  that  he  was  always 
behind  her,  staring  at  her  through  those  glasses  that 
had,  she  was  convinced^  large  gold  rims  and  thin  gold 
wires.  She  fancied  that  she  had  before  her  a  dim  out- 
line of  his  face — pale,  the  chin  sharp  and  pointed,  the 
ears  large  and  protuberant,  the  head  dome-shaped  and 


143         THE  THniTEE:^'  TEAYELLEKS 

bald.  It  was  now  that,  with  all  her  life  and  soul  in  the 
struggle  for  her  friend,  she  realised  that  she  did  not 
love  her  enough.  The  intense  love  of  her  life  had  been 
already  in  earlier  years  given.  Mrs.  Porter  was  a  sweet 
old  lady,  and  Miss  Allen  would  give  her  life  for  her — 
but  her  soul  was  atrophied  a  little,  tired  a  little, 
exhausted  perhaps  in  the  struggle  so  sharp  and  persist- 
ent for  her  own  existence. 

"Oh,  if  I  were  younger  I  could  drive  him  away!" 
came  back  to  her  again  and  again.  She  found  too  that 
her  own  fear  impeded  her  own  self-sacrifice.  She  hated 
this  shadow  as  something  strong,  evil,  like  mildew  on 
stone,  chilling  breath.  "I'm  not  brave  enough.  .  .  . 
I'm  not  good  enough.  .  .  .  I'm  not  young  enough!" 
Incessantlv  she  tried  to  determine  how  real  her  sensa- 
tions  were.  Was  she  simply  influenced  by  Mrs.  Porter's 
fear  ?  Was  it  the  blindest  imagination  ?  Was  it  bred 
simply  of  the  close,  confined  life  that  they  were  leading  ? 

She  could  not  tell.  They  had  resumed  their  con- 
spiracy of  silence,  of  false  animation  and  ease  of  mind. 
They  led  their  daily  lives  as  though  there  was  nothing 
between  them.  But  with  every  day  Mrs.  Porter's 
strength  was  failing;  the  look  of  horrified  anticipation 
in  her  eyes  was  now  permanent.  At  night  they  slept 
together,  and  the  little  frail  body  trembled  like  a  leaf 
in  Miss  Allen's  arms. 

The  appearances  were  now  regularised.  Always  when 
they  were  in  the  middle  of  their  second  game  of 
"Patience"  Miss  Allen  felt  that  impulse  to  turn,  that 
singing  in  her  ears,  the  force  of  his  ironical  gaze.  He 
was  now  almost  complete  to  her,  standing  in  front  of 


URS.  POETER  AND  MISS  ALLEN      149 

the  Japanese  screen,  his  thin  legs  apart,  his  hostile, 
conceited  face  bent  towards  them,  his  pale,  thin  hands 
extended  as  though  to  catch  a  warmth  that  was  not 
there. 

A  Sunday  evening  came.  Earlier  than  usual  they 
sat  down  to  their  cards.  Through  the  open  window 
shivered  the  jangled  chimes  of  the  bells  of  St.  James's. 

"Well,  he  won't  come  yet  .  .  ."  was  Miss  Allen's 
thought.  Then  with  that  her  nightly  resolve:  "When 
he  comes  I  must  not  turn — I  must  not  look.  She  must 
not  know  that  I  know." 

Suddenly  he  was  with  them,  and  with  a  dominant 
force,  a  cruelty,  a  determination  that  was  beyond  any- 
thing that  had  been  before. 

"Four,  five,  six.  .  .  ."  The  cards  trembled  in  Mrs. 
Porter's  hand.     "And  there's  the  spade,  Lucy  dear." 

He  came  closer.  He  was  nearer  to  her  than  he  had 
ever  been.  She  summoned  all  that  she  had — her  loyalty, 
her  love,  her  honesty,  her  self-discipline.  It  was  not 
enough. 

She  turned.  He  was  there  as  she  had  always  known 
that  she  would  see  him,  his  cruel,  evil,  supercilious  face, 
conscious  of  its  triumph,  bent  toward  them,  his  grey 
clothes  hanging  loosely  about  his  thin  body,  his  hands 
spread  out.    He  was  like  an  animal  about  to  spring. 

"God  help  me!  God  help  me!"  she  cried.  With 
those  words  she  knew  that  she  had  failed.  She  stood 
as  though  she  would  protect  with  her  body  her  friend. 
She  was  too  late. 

Mrs.  Porter's  agonised  cry,  "You  see  him,  Lucy! 
.  .  .  You  see  him,  Lucy !"  warned  her. 


150         THE  THIKTEEiT  TRAVELLERS 

"j^o,  no,"  she  answered.  She  felt  sometlaing  like  a 
cold  breath  of  stagnant  water  pass  her.  She  turned 
back  to  see  the  old  woman  tunable  across  the  table,  scat- 
tering the  little  cards. 

The  room  was  emptied.  They  two  were  alone;  she 
knew,  without  moving,  horror  and  self-shame  holding 
her  there,  that  her  poor  friend  was  dead. 


VIII 
;■.  LOIS  DRAKE 

MISS  LOIS  DRAKE  lived  in  one  of  the  attics  at 
the  top  of  Hortons.  That  sounds  poverty- 
struck  and  democratic,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  v^^as 
precisely  the  opposite. 

The  so-called  ''attics"  at  Hortons  are  amongst  thft 
very  handsomest  flats  in  London,  their  windows  com- 
mand some  of  the  very  best  views,  and  the  sloping  roof 
that  gives  them  their  name  does  not  slope  enough  to 
make  them  inconvenient,  only  enough  to  make  them 
quaint. 

Miss  Drake  was  lucky,  and  asked  Mr.  iNix  whether  he 
had  any  flats  to  let  on  the  very  day  that  one  of  the  attics 
was  vacated.  But  then,  Miss  Drake  was  always  lucky, 
as  you  could  see  quite  well  if  you  looked  at  her.  She 
was  a  tall,  slim  girl,  with  dark  brown  hair,  an  imperious 
brow,  and  what  her  friends  called  a  "bossy"  mouth.  It 
was,  indeed,  her  character  to  be  "bossy."  Her  father, 
that  noted  traveller  and  big-game  hunter,  had  encour- 
aged her  to  be  "bossy" ;  the  Drakes  and  the  Bosanquets 
and  the  Mumpuses,  all  the  good  old  county  families  with 
whom  she  was  connected,  encouraged  her  to  be  "bossy." 
Finally,  the  war  had  encouraged  her  to  be  "bossy." 
She  had  become  in  the  early  days  of  1915  an  officer  in 
the  "W.A.A.C."  and  since  then  she  had  risen  to  every 

151 


152         THE  THIKTEEN  TEAYELLERS 

kind  of  distinction.     She  Had   done  magnificently   in 
France ;  had  won  medals  and  honours.     oSTo  wonder  she 
believed  in  herself.     She  was  born  to  command  other 
women;   she  had  just  that  contempt  for  her  sex  and 
approval    of    herself    necessary    for    command.       She 
believed  that   women  were   greatly   inferior  to  men; 
nevertheless,  she  was  always  indignant  did  men  not  fall 
down  instantly  and  abase  themselves  before  the  women 
of  whom  she  approved.     ''She  bore  herself  as  a  queen," 
so  her  adoring  friends  said ;  quite  frankly  she  considered 
herself  one.     The  "W.A.A.C."  unifoi-m  suited  her;  she 
liked  stiff  collars  and  short  skirts  and  tight  belts.     She 
was  full-breasted,  had  fine  athletic  limbs,  her  cheeks 
were  flushed  with  health.     Then  the  Armistice  came, 
and  somewhere  in  March  she  found  herself  demobilised. 
It  was  then  that  she  took  her  attic  at  Hortons.     Her 
father  had  died  of  dysentery  in  Egypt  in  1915,  and  had 
left  her  amply  provided  for.     Her  mother,  who  was  of 
no  account,  being  only  a  Chipping-Basset  and  retiring 
by   nature,    lived   at  Dolles   Hall,    in  Wiltshire,    and 
troubled  no  one.     Lois  was  the  only  child. 

She  could,  then,  spend  her  life  as  she  pleased,  and  she 
soon  discovered  that  there  was  plenty  to  do.  Her 
nature  had  never  been  either  modest  or  retiring;  she 
had  from  the  earliest  possible  age  read  everything  that 
came  her  way,  and  five  years  at  Morton  House  School, 
one  year  in  Germany,  and  four  months  in  East  Africa 
with  her  father  had  left  her,  as  she  herself  said,  "with 
nothing  about  men  that  she  didn't  know." 

The  war  took  away  her  last  reserves.  She  was  a 
modern  woman,  and  saw  life  steadily  and  saw  it  whole. 


LOIS  DKAKE  153 

She  also  saw  it  entirely  to  her  own  advantage.     The 
strongest    element    in    her    nature   was,    perhaps,    her 
assured  self-confidence  in  her  management  of  human 
beings.     She  had,  she  would  boast,  never  been  known 
to  fail  with  men  or  women.     Her  success  in  the  war 
had  teen  largely   due  to  the  fact  that   she  had   ap- 
plied certain   simple  rules   of  her   own   to  everybody 
alike,  refusing  to  believe  in  individualities.     "Men  and 
women  fall  into  two  or  three  classes.     You  can  tell  in 
five  minutes  the  class  you're  dealing  with ;  then  you  act 
accordingly."     Her  chief  theory  about  men  was  that 
"they  liked  to  be  treated  as  men."     "They  want  you  to 
be  one  of  themselves."     She  adopted  with  them  a  mas- 
culine attitude  that  fitted  her  less  naturally  than  she 
knew.     She  drank  with  them,  smoked  with  them,  told 
them  rather  "tall"  stories,  was  never  shocked  by  any- 
thing that  they  said,  "gave  them  as  good  as  they  gave 
her." 

After  her  demobilisation  she  danced  a  good  deal, 
dined  alone  at  restaurants  with  men  whom  she  scarcely 
knew,  went  back  to  men's  rooms  after  the  theatre  and 
had  a  "last  whiskey,"  walked  home  alone  after  mid- 
night and  let  herself  into  her  "attic"  with  great  satis- 
faction. She  had  the  most  complete  contempt  for  girls 
who  "could  not  look  after  themselves."  "If  girls  got 
into  trouble  it  was  their  own  rotten  fault." 

She  had  developed  during  her  time  in  France  a  mas- 
culine fashion  of  standing,  sitting,  talking,  laughing. 
ISTothing  made  her  more  indignant  than  that  a  man 
should  offer  her  his  seat  in  a  Tube.  How  her  haughty 
glance  scorned  him  as  she  refused  him !     "It's  an  insult 


154        THE  THIETEEI^  TEAVELLEES 

to  our  sex,"  she  would  say.  How  she  rejoiced  in  her 
freedom!  "At  last,"  she  said,  "there  is  sex  equality. 
We  can  do  what  we  like." 

She  was,  however,  not  quite  free.  The  war  had  left 
her  a  legacy  in  the  person  of  aa  adoring  girl  friend, 
Margery  Scales.  Margery  was  an  exact  opposite  to 
herself  in  every  way — plump  and  soft  and  rosy  and 
appealing  and  entirely  feminine.  She  had  been  "under" 
I^ois  in  France;  from  the  first  she  had  desperately 
adored  her.  It  was  an  adoration  without  qualification. 
Lois  was  perfect,  a  queen,  a  goddess.  Margery  would 
die  for  her  instantly  if  called  upon ;  not  that  she  wanted 
to  die.  She  loved  life,  being  pretty  and  healthy,  and 
allowed  by  loving  parents  a  great  deal  of  freedom. 

But  what  was  life  without  Lois?  Lois  would  tell 
you,  if  you  asked  her,  that  she  had  made  Mai'gery. 
"Margery  owed  her  everything."  Others,  who  did  not 
like  Lois,  said  that  she  had  ruined  Margery.  Margery 
herself  felt  that  life  had  simply  not  begun  in  those  years 
before  Lois  had  appeared. 

Lois  had  determined  that  "after  the  war"  she  would 
finish  the  Margery  affair.  It  unsettled  hei',  disturbed 
her,  refused  to  fall  into  line  with  all  the  straightfor- 
ward arrangements  that  were  as  easy  to  manage  as 
"putting  your  clothes  on."  The  truth  was,  that  Lois 
was  fonder  of  Margery  than  she  wanted  to  be.  She 
quarrelled  with  her,  scolded  her,  laughed  at  her,  scorned 
her,  and  at  the  end  of  it  all  had  absurdly  soft  and 
tender  feelings  for  her  that  were  not  at  all  "sensible." 

Margery's  veiy  helplessness — a  quality  that  infuri- 
ated Lois  in  others — attracted  and  held  her.     She  had 


LOIS  DKAKE  155 

too  much  to  do  to  bother  about  people's  feelings ;  never- 
theless, were  Margery  distressed  and  unhappy,  Lois 
was  uncomfortable  and  ill  at  ease.  "After  the  war  I'll 
break  it  off.  .  .  .  It's  sentimental."  . 

iN^evertheless,  here  she  was,  four  months,  five  months, 
six  months  after  the  Armistice,  and  it  was  not  broken 
off.  She  would  dismiss  Margery  with  scorn,  tell  her 
that  she  could  not  be  bothered  with  her  scenes  and  tears 
and  repentances,  and  then  five  minutes  after  she  had 
expelled  her  she  would  want  to  know  where  she  was, 
what  she  was  doing. 

She  would  not  confess  to  herself  the  joy  that  she  felt 
when  Margery  suddenly  reappeared.  Then,  as  she 
weeks  went  by,  she  began  to  wonder  whether  Margery 
were  as  completely  under  her  control  as  she  used  to  be. 
The  girl  seemed  at  times  to  criticise  her.  She  said 
quite  frankly  that  she  hated  some  of  the  men  whom 
Lois  gathered  round  her  in  the  attic. 

"Well,  you  needn't  come,"  said  Lois;  "I  don't  want 
you."    Then,  o£  course,  Margery  cried. 

There  was  one  occasion  when  Mr.  IsTix,  the  manager 
of  the  flat,  very  politely,  and  with  the  urbanity  for 
which  he  was  famous,  warned  her  that  there  must  not 
be  so  much  noise  at  her  evening  parties.  Lois  was 
indignant.  "I'll  pack  iip  and  go.  You'd  think  ISTix  was 
Queen  Victoria."  Nevertheless  she  did  not  pack  up 
and  go.  She  knew  when  she  was  comfortable.  But 
deep  down  in  her  heart  something  warned  her.  Did 
she  like  all  the  men  who  now  surrounded  her?  Was 
there  not  something  in  what  Mai'gery  said  ?  In  France 
there  had  been  work,  heaps  of  it    Her  organising  gifts, 


156         THE  THIETEEN  TRAVELLERS 

which  were  very  real,  had  had  full  play  there.  The 
sense  of  the  position  that  she  had  had  unsettled  her. 
She  wanted  to  fill  her  life,  to  be  still  of  importance,  to 
be  admired  and  sought  after  and  tallied  of.  Yet  the 
men  with  whom  she  spent  her  time  were  not  quite  the 
right  men,  and  sometimes  that  little  voice  of  warning 
told  her  that  they  went  too  far,  said  things  to  her  that 
they  had  no  right  to  say,  told  stories.  .  .  . 

But  did  she  not  encourage  them  ?  Was  not  that  what 
she  wanted  ?  Perfect  equality  now ;  no  false  prudeiy : 
the  new  world  in  which  men  and  women  stood  shoulder 
to  shoulder  with  no  false  reserves,  no  silly  modesties. 
If  Margery  didn't  like  it,  she  could  go.  .  .  . 

But  she  did  not  want  Margery  to  go. 

Then  "Tubby"  Greufell  came  and  the  world  was 
changed.  Grenfell  was  nicknamed  "Tubby"  by  his 
friends  because  he  was  round  and  plump  and  rosy-faced. 
Lois  did  not  know  it,  but  she  liked  him  at  once  because 
of  his  resemblance  to  Margery.  He  was  only  a  boy, 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  the  apple  of  his  mother's 
eye.  He  had  done  magnificently  in  France,  and  now 
he  had  gone  on  to  the  Stock  Exchange,  where  his  uncle 
was  a  man  of  importance  and  power.  He  had  the  same 
rather  helpless  appealing  innocence  that  Margery  had 
had.  He  took  life  very  seriously,  but  enjoyed  it  too, 
laughing  a  great  deal  and  wanting  to  see  and  do  every- 
thing. His  naivete  touched  Lois.  She  told  him  that 
she  was  going  to  be  his  elder  brother.  Erom  the  very 
first  he  had  thought  Lois  perfectly  wonderful,  just  as 
Margery  had  done.  He  received  her  dicta  about  life 
with  the  utmost  gravity.     He  came  and  went  just  as 


LOIS  DRAKE  157 

she  told  him.  He  "ate  out  of  her  hand/'  his  friends 
told  him. 

"Well,  I'm  proud  to,"  he  said. 

Unfortunately  he  and  Margery  disliked  one  another 
from  the  very  beginning.  That  made  difficulties  for 
Lois,  and  she  did  not  like  difficulties. 

"Wfeat  you  can  see  in  him,"  said  Margery,  "I  can't 
think.  He's  just  the  sort  of  man  you  despise.  Of 
course  he's  been  brave ;  but  anyone  can  be  brave.  The 
other  men  laugh  at  him." 

He  had  a  good-natured  contempt  for  Margery. 

"It's  jolly  good  of  you  to  look  after  a  girl  like  that," 
he  said  to  Lois.  "It's  just  your  kindness.  I  don't 
know  how  you  can  bother." 

Lois  laughed  at  both  of  them,  and  arranged  that 
they  should  meet  as  seldom  as  possible. 

Hortons  was  soon  haunted  by  "Tubby"  Grenfell's 
presence. 

"Peace  Day"  came  and  went,  and  Lois  really  felt 
that  it  was  time  that  she  "settled  her  life."  Here  was 
the  surmner  before  her ;  there  were  a  number  of  places 
to  which  she  might  go  and  she  could  not  make  up  her 
mind. 

Firstly,  she  knew  that  some  of  the  time  must  be 
spent  with  her  mother  in  Wiltshire,  and  she  was  dread- 
ing this.  Her  mother  never  criticised  her,  never  asked 
her  questions,  never  made  any  demands,  and  Lois  had 
rather  enjoyed  spending  days  of  her  "leave"  in  that 
silly  old-fashioned  company.  But  now?  Could  it  be 
that  Lois  was  two  quite  different  people  and  that  one 
half  of  her  was  jealous  of  the  other  half? 


158         THE  THIETEEN  TKAVELLEKS 

Moreover,  there  was  now  a  complication  about  Scot- 
land. "Tubby"  bad  begged  her  to  go  to  a  certain  bouse 
in  J^ortbumberland ;  nice  people;  people  she  knew 
enougb  to  want  to  know  tbem  more.  He  begged  her  to 
go  tbere  during  the  very  month  that  she  bad  planned  to 
go  away  with  Mai'gery.  She  knew  quite  well  that  if 
she  tried  to  break  the  Scottish  holiday  that  would  be 
the  end — Margery  would  leave  her  and  never  return. 
Well,  was  not  that  exactly  what  she  had  been  desiring  ? 
Was  she  not  feeling  this  animosity  between  "Tubby" 

and  Margery  a  great  nuisance  ?    And  yet — and  yet 

She  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  lose  Margery;  no, 
not  yet.  Her  hatred  of  this  individual  (she  had  never 
been  undecided  in  France;  she  had  always  known 
exactly  what  she  intended  to  do)  flung  her,  precipi- 
tately, into  that  final  quarrel  with  Margery  that,  in 
reality,  she  wanted  to  avoid.  It  took  place  one  morn- 
ing in  "the  attic."  It  was  a  short  and  stormy  scene. 
Lois  began  by  suggesting  that  they  should  take  their 
holiday  during  part  of  September  instead  of  August, 
and  that  perhaps  they  would  not  go  so  far  as  Scotland. 
.  .  .  What  about  the  South  Coast  ?  Margery  listened, 
the  colour  coming  into  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears  as  they  always  did  when  she  was  excited. 

"But   we'd   arranged "   she  said   in   a   kind   of 

awe-struck  whisper.     "Months  ago — we  fixed " 

"I  know,  my  dear,"  said  Lois,  with  a  carelessness 
that  she  by  no  means  felt.  "But  what  does  it  matter  ? 
September's  as  good  as  August,  and  I  hate  Scotland." 

"You  said  you  loved  it  before,"  said  Margery  slowly, 
staring  as  though  she  were  a  stranger  who  had  brought 


LOIS  DKAKE  159 

dramatic  news.     "I  believe,"  she  went  on,  "it's  because 
you  want  to  stay  with  Mr.  Grenfell." 

''If  you  want  to  know/'  cried  Lois,  suddenly  urged 
on  partly  by  her  irritation  at  being  judged,  but  still 
more  by  her  anger  at  herself  for  feeling  Margery's  dis- 
tress, "it' is.  You're  impossible,  Margery.  You're  so 
selfish.  It  can't  make  any  difference  to  you,  putting 
our  holiday  off.     You're  selfish.     That's  what  it  is." 

Then  a  remarkable  thing  occurred.  Margery  did  not 
burst  into  tears.  Only  all  the  colour  drained  from  her 
face  and  her  eyes  fell. 

"'No,  I  don't  think  I'm  selfish,"  said  Margery;  "I 
want  you  to  enjoy  yourself.  You're  tired  of  me,  and 
I  don't  blame  you.  But  I  won't  hang  on  to  you.  That 
would  be  selfish  if  I  did.  I  think  I'll  go  now.  Be- 
sides," she  added,  "I  think  you're  in  love  with  Mr. 
Grenfell." 

Suddenly,  as  Margeiy  said  the  words,  Lois  knew  that 
it  was  true.  She  was  in  love,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life.  A  great  exultation  and  happiness  filled  her ; 
for  the  first  time  for  many  months  she  was  simple  and 
natural  and  good.  Her  masculinity  fell  from  her,  leav- 
ing her  her  true  self. 

She  came  over  to  Margery,  knelt  down  by  her  side, 
put  her  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her.  Margery 
returned  the  kiss,  but  did 'not  surrender  herself.  Her 
body  was  stiff  and  unyielding.  She  withdrew  herself 
from  Lois  and  got  up. 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said,  her  voice  trembling  a  little. 
"I  hope  you'll  be  very  happy." 

Lois  looked  at  her  with  anxious  eyes. 


IGO        THE  THIRTEElvr  TEAVELLERS 

"But  this  doesn't  make  any  difference  to  us,"  she 
sa,id.  "We  can  be  the  same  friends  as  before — more 
than  we  were.  You'll  like  'Tubby,'  Margery  darling, 
when  you  know  him.  We'll  have  a  gi-eat  time — we 
three." 

"No,"  said  Margery,  "this  doesn't  make  any  differ- 
ence. That's  quite  true.  The  difference  was  made 
before." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Lois,  standing  up,  her 
agitation  strangely  returning. 

"You've  been  different,"  said  Margery.  "Since  we 
came  back  from  France,  you've  been  changing  all  the 
time.  It  seemed  right  out  there,  your  ordering  every- 
body about.  I  admired  it.  You  were  fine.  But  now 
in  London — I've  no  right  to  say  so.  But  you're  trying 
to  do  all  the  things  men  do;  and  it's — it's — beastly, 
somehow.  It  doesn't  suit  you.  It  isn't  natural.  I 
don't  believe  the  men  like  it  either,  or  at  any  rate  not 
the  nice  men.  I  suppose  it's  silly,  but  I  don't  admire  ' 
you  any  more,  and  if  I  don't  admdre  you,  I  can't  love  n 
you."  With  that  last  word  she  was  gone,  and  Lois 
knew  quite  well  that  she  would  never  come  back  again. 

Lois  stayed  in  the  "attic"  that  morning  in  an  odd 
confusion  of  mind.  Margery  was  jealous,  of  course; 
that  was  what  had  made  her  say  those  things.  Her 
discovery  of  her  love  for  Grenfell  filled  her  with  joy, 
so  that  she  could  scarcely  realise  Margery;  moreover 
the  uncertainty  that  had  been  troubling  her  for  months 
was  over,  but  behind  these  feelings  was  a  curious  new 
sense  of  loss,  a  sense  that  she  refused  to  face.  Life 
without  Margery — what  would  it  be?     But  she  turned 


LOIS  DRAKE  161 

from  that  and,  with  joyful  anticipation,  thought  of  her 
new  career. 

She  decided  at  once  to  dismiss  Margery  from  her 
thoughts — not  only  partially,  but  altogether,  so  that  no 
fragment  of  her  should  be  left.  That  was  her  only  way 
to  be'comfortable.  She  had  on  earlier  occasions  been 
forced  to  dismiss  people  thus  absolutely;  she  had  not 
found  it  difficult,  and  she  had  enjoyed  in  the  doing  of  it 
a  certain  sense  that  she  was  finishing  them,  and  that 
they  would  be  sorry  now  for  what  they  had  done.  But 
with  Margery  she  saw  that  that  would  be  difficult. 
Margery  had  been  with  her  so  long,  had  given  her  so 
much  praise  and  encouragement,  was  associated  in  so 
many  ways  with  so  many  places.  She  would  return 
again  and  again,  an  obstinate  ghost,  slipping  into  scenes 
and  thoughts  where  she  should  not  be.  Lois  discovered 
herself  watching  the  post,  listening  to  the  telephone,  her 
heart  beating  at  the  sudden  opening  and  shutting  of  a 
door  .   .   .  but  Margery  did  not  return. 

She  centred  herself  then  absolutely  around  young 
Grenfell.  She  demanded  of  him  twice  what  she  had 
demanded  before  because  Margery  was  gone.  There 
was  something  feverish  now  in  her  possession  of  him. 
She  was  not  contented  and  easv  as  she  had  been,  but 
must  have  him  absolutely.  She  was  anxious  that  he 
should  propose  to  her  soon  and  end  this  period  of  doubt 
and  discomfort.  She  knew,  of  course,  that  he  would 
propose — it  was  merely  a  question  of  time — but  there 
was  something  old-fashioned  about  him:  a  sort  of 
naivete  which  hindered  him  perhaps  from  coming  for- 
ward too  quickly. 


162        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

She  was  not  alone  witli  him  very  much,  because  she 
thought  it  was  good  for  him  to  see  how  other  men 
admired  her.  She  gathered  around  her  more  than  be- 
fore the  men  with  whom  she  might  be  on  thoroughly 
equal  terms,  as  though  in  defiance  of  Margery's  final 
taunt  to  her.  It  was  as  though  she  said  to  that  per- 
petually interfering  ghost :  "Well,  if  you  will  come  back 
and  remind  me,  you  shall  see  that  you  were  wrong  in 
what  you  said.  Men  do  like  me  for  the  very  things 
of  which  you  disapproved  .  .  .  and  they  shall  like  me 
more  and  more." 

She  thought  Grenfell  understood  that  it  was  because 
of  him  that  Margery  had  gone. 

"She  was  jealous  of  you,"  she  said,  laughing.  "I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  why  she  should  have  been.  .  .  .  You 
never  liked  one  another,  did  you?  Poor  Margery! 
She's  old-fashioned.  She  ought  to  have  lived  fifty  years 
ago." 

She  was  surprised  when  he  said,  "Did  she  dislike  me  ? 
Of  course  we  used  to  fight,  but  I  didn't  think  it  meant 
an3i:hing;  I  didn't  dislike  her.  I'm  so  sorry  you've 
quarrelled." 

He  seemed  really  concerned  about  it.  One  day  he 
amazed  her  by  saying  that  he'd  seen  Margery.  They 
had  met  somewhere  and  had  a  talk.     Lois's  heart  leapt. 

"I'm  ready  to  forgive  her,"  she  said,  "for  what  she 
did.  But  of  course  things  can  never  be  quite  the  same 
again." 

"Oh,  she  won't  come  back !"  Grenfell  said.  "I  begged 
her,  but  she  said,  'ISTo.'  You  weren't  as  you  used  to 
be." 


LOIS  DRAKE  163 

At  this  Lois  felt  an  unhappiness  that  surprised  her 
by  its  vehemence.  '  Then  she  put  that  away  and  was 
angry.  "I  don't  want  her  back,"  she  cried.  "If  she 
came  and  begged  me  I  wouldn't  have  her." 

But  she  felt  that  Grenfell  had  not  reported  truly. 
He  was  jealous  of  Margery,  and  did  not  want  her  to 
return.  He  seemed  now  at  times  to  be  a  little  restive 
under  her  domination ;  that  only  made  her  more  domi- 
nating. She  had  scenes  with  him,  all  of  them  worked 
up  by  her.  She  arranged  them  because  he  was  so  sweet 
to  her  when  they  were  reconciled.  He  was  truly  in 
despair  if  she  were  unhappy,  and  would  do  anything 
to  make  her  comfortable  again.  Once  they  were  en- 
gaged, she  told  herself,  she  would  have  no  more  scenes. 
She  would  be  sure  of  him  then.  She  was  in  a  strange 
state  of  excitement  and  uncertainty;  but  then,  these 
were  uncertain  and  exciting  times,  ^o  one  seemed  to 
know  quite  where  they  were,  with  strikes  and  dances 
and  all  the  "classes"  upside  dowTi.  Although  Lois  be- 
lieved that  women  should  be  just  as  men  she  resented 
it  when  Fanny,  the  portress,  was  rude  to  her.  She  had 
got  into  the  way  of  giving  Fanny  little  things  to  do; 
sending  her  messages,  asking  her  to  stamp  letters,  to 
wrap  up  parcels.  Fanny  was  so  willing  that  she  would 
do  anything  for  anybody ;  but  the  day  came  when  Fanny 
frankly  told  her  that  she  had  not  the  time  to  carry  mes- 
sages. Her  place  was  in  the  hall.  She  was  very  sorry. 
.  .  .  Lois  was  indignant.  What  was  the  girl  there 
for  ?  She  appealed  to  Grenfell.  But  he,  in  the  charm- 
ing, hesitating,  courteous  way  that  he  had,  was  inclined 
to  agree  with  Fanny.     After  all,  the  girl  had  her  work 


164        THE  THIRTEEN  TEAVELLERS 

to  do.     She  had  to  be  in  her  place.     At  this  little  sign 
of  rebellion  Lois  redoubled  her  efforts. 

He  must  propose  to  her  soon.  She  wished  that  he 
were  not  quite  so  diffident.  She  found  here  that  this 
masculinity  of  hers  hindered  a  little  the  opportunities 
of  courtship.  If  you  behaved  just  like  a  man,  swore 
like  a  man,  drank  like  a  man,  discussed  any  moral 
question  like  a  man,  scenes  with  sentiment  and  emotion 
were  difficult.  When  you  told  a  man  a  hundred  times 
a  day  that  you  wanted  him  to  treat  you  as  he  would  a 
pal,  it  was  perhaps  irrational  of  you  to  expect  him  to  \ 
kiss  you.  Men  did  not  kiss  men,  nor  did  they  bother 
to  explain  if  they  were  rude  or  casual. 

She  had,  however,  a  terrible  shock  one  night  when 
Conrad  Hawke,  a  man  whom  she  never  liked,  seeing 
her  back  to  the  ^*attic"  after  the  theatre,  tried  to  kiss 
her.  She  smacked  his  face.  He  was  deeply  indignant. 
''Why,  you've  been  asking  for  it!"  he  cried.  This  hor- 
rified her,  and  she  decided  that  Grenfell  must  propose 
to  her  immediately.  This  was  the  more  necessary, 
because  during  the  last  week  or  two  he  had  been  less 
often  to  see  her — and  had  been  less  at  his  ease  with  her. 
.  .  .  She  decided  that  he  wanted  to  propose  but  had  not 
the  courage. 

She  planned  then  that  on  a  certain  evening  the  event 
should  take  place.  There  was  to  be  a  great  boxing 
match  at  Olympia.  Beckett  was  to  fight  Goddard  for 
the  heavj"^\'eight  championship  of  Great  Britain,  She 
had  never  seen  a  boxing  match.  Grenfell  should  take 
her  to  this  one. 

When  she  suggested  it  he  hesitated. 


LOIS  DRAKE  165 

"I'd  love  us  to  ffo  tosrether,  of  course,"  he  said.  "All 
the  same,  I  don't  think  I  approve  of  women  going  to 
boxing  matches." 

"My  dear  'Tubbv,'  "  she  cried ;  "what  age  do  you 
think  vou're  living  in  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  doubt- 
fully. 

"If  that  isn't  too  absurd !"  she  cried.  "Has  there 
been  a  war  or  has  there  not?  And  have  I  been  in 
France  doing  every  kind  of  dirty  work  or  not  ?  Really, 
^Tubby,'  you  might  be  Mother." 

His  chubby  face  coloured.  His  eyes  were  full  of 
perplexity. 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  you  want  to  go,  I'll  take  you," 
he  said.     "All  the  same,  I'd  rather  not." 

She  insisted.  The  tickets  were  taken.  She  was 
determined  that  that  night  he  should  propose  to  her. 

The  great  evening  had  arrived,  and  they  had  a  little 
dinner  at  the  Carlton  Grill.  Lois  was  wearing  a  dress 
of  the  very  latest  fashion — that  is,  a  dress  that  showed 
all  her  back,  that  was  cut  very  low  in  front,  and  that  left 
her  arms  and  shoulders  quite  bare.  She  seemed,  as 
she  sat  at  the  table,  to  have  almost  nothing  on  at  all. 
This,  unfortunately,  did  not  suit  her.  Hier  figure  was 
magnificent,  but  the  rough  life  in  France  had  helped 
neither  her  skin  nor  her  complexion.  The  upper  part 
of  her  chest  and  her  neck  were  sunburnt.  Her  arms 
were  brown.  She  had  taken  much  trouble  with  her 
hair,  but  it  would  not  obey  her  now  as  it  had  done 
in  the  old  days. 

"I'm  a  fright,"  she  had  thought  as  she  looked  at  her- 


166         THE  THIRTEEN  TEAVELLERS 

self  in  the  glass.  For  a  moment  she  thought  she  would 
wear  one  of  her  old  less-revealing  evening  frocks.  But 
no;  she  was  worrying  absurdly.  All  the  women  wore 
these  dresses  now.  She  would  look  a  frump  in  that 
old  dress.  In  colour  the  frock  was  a  bright  mauve. 
She  was  aware  that  all  eyes  followed  her  as  she  came 
into  the  grill  room.  She  carried  herself  superbly,  re- 
membering how  many  girls — yes,  and  men  too — had 
called  her  a  queen.  She  saw  at  once  that  ''Tubby" 
Grenfell  was  uneasy,  and  not  his  cheerful,  innocent 
self.  He  seemed  to  have  something  that  dragged  his 
thoughts  away  from  her.  They  both  drank  a  good 
deal ;  soon  they  were  laughing  uproariously.  .  .  . 

They  started  off  in  a  taxi  for  Olympia.  The  wine 
that  she  had  drunk,  the  sense  of  the  crisis  that  this 
night  must  bring  to  her,  the  beautiful  air  of  this  May 
evening,  through  which  in  their  open  taxi  they  were 
gliding,  the  whisper  and  the  murmur  of  the  Knights- 
bridge  crowd — all  these  things  excited  her  as  she  had 
never  in  all  her  life  been  excited  before.  Had  she 
looked  at  herself  she  would  have  realised,  from  this 
excitement,  the  child  that  she  really  was. 

She  put  her  hand  on  "Tubby' s"  broad  knee  and  drew 
a  little  closer  to  him.  He  talked  to  her  eagerly,  himself 
excited  by  the  great  event.  He  explained  something  of 
the  fighting  to  her. 

''There'll  be  a  lot  of  'in-fighting,'  "  he  said ;  "there 
always  is  nowadays,  they've  caught  it  from  America. 
You'll  find  that  rather  boring.  But  it  isn't  boring 
really.  There's  heaps  of  science  in  it ;  more  than  there 
used  to  be  in  the  old  boxing.     They  say  that  that's 


LOIS  DEAKE  1G7 

where  Beckett  will  be  beaten — that  he  can't  in-fight. 
I  don't  believe  they're  right,  but  we'll  see.  .  .  .  That's 
what  makes  to-night  so  exciting.  IN'o  one  knows  really 
what  Beckett  can  do.  He  knocked  out  Wells  too 
quickly,  and  he's  improved  so  much  that  he's  hardly  the 
same  man  as  he  was  before." 

He  chattered  on,  apparently  now  quite  happy.  What 
a  dear  he  was !  What  a  boy !  How  natural  and  good 
and  simple!  She  felt  maternal  to  him,  as  though  he 
were  her  child.  How  happy  they  would  be  when  they 
were  married !  how  happy  she  would  make  him ! 

They  drew  near  to  Olympia.  They  were  now  in  a 
great  stream  of  cars  and  taxis.  Crowds  thronged  the 
road.  They  got  out  and  pushed  their  way  along.  The 
presence  of  the  crowd  thrilled  Lois  so  that  her  eyes 
shone  and  her  heart  hammered.  She  clung  to 
"Tubby's"  strong  arm.  Soon  they  were  through  the 
gates,  pushing  up  the  Olympia  steps,  passing  the  turn- 
stiles. What  strange  faces  there  were  on  all  sides  of 
her !  She  could  not  see  another  woman  anywhere.  She 
gathered  her  cloak  more  closely  about  her.  They 
passed  into  the  arena.  For  a  moment  she  was  dazzled 
by  the  light.  The  tiers  of  seats  rose  on  every  side  of 
her,  higher  and  higher.  She  followed  "Tubby"  meekly, 
feeling  very  small  and  insignificant.  Soon  they  were 
seated  close  to  the  ring.  Already  men  were  boxing,  but 
no  one  seemed  to  look  at  them.  Everyone  hurried  to 
and  fro ;  people  were  finding  their  seats.  Around  her, 
above  her,  beyond  her,  was  a  curious  electrical  hum  of 
excitement,  like  the  buzz  of  swarming  bees.  She  her- 
self felt  so  deeply  moved  that  she  was  not  far  from 


168         THE  THIKTEEN  TEAVELLERS 

tears.  She  grew  more  accustomed  to  the  place.  She 
sat  back  in  her  chair,  throwing  her  cloak  behind  her. 
"Tubby"  talked  to  her  in  a  low  voice,  explaining  where 
everything  was,  who  various  celebrities  were.  There 
was  Cochran ;  that  was  Eugene  Con-i ;  there  was  a  fa- 
mous actor ;  and  so  on.  She  began  to  be  confident. 
She  knew  that  men  were  looking  at  her.  She  liked 
them  to  look  at  her.  She  asked  "Tubby"  for  a  cigar- 
ette. Her  eyes  moved  to  the  ring;  she  watched  the 
boxing.  She  felt  a  renewed  thrill  at  the  sight  of  the 
men's  splendid  condition ;  and  then,  as  she  looked  about 
her  and  saw  the  black  cloud  of  men  rising  above  and 
around  her  on  every  side,  she  could  have  clapped  her 
hands  with  joy.  Soon  she  was  impatient  of  the  boxing. 
She  wanted  the  great  event  of  the  evening  to  begin. 
She  felt  as  though  she  could  not  wait  any  longer,  as 
though  she  must  get  up  in  her  seat  and  call  to  them  to 
come.  She  was  aware  then  that  "Tubby"  was  again 
uncomfortable.  Was  he  distressed  because  men  looked 
at  her  ?  Why  should  they  not  ?  Perhaps  he  did  not 
think  that  she  should  smoke.  Well,  she  would  smoke. 
He  was  not  her  keeper. 

The  heat,  the  smoke,  the  stir,  confused  and  bewil- 
dered her,  but  she  liked  the  bewilderment.  She  was 
drunk  with  it — only  this  intense  impatience  for  Beckett 
and  Goddard  to  come  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 
"Oh,  I  do  wish  they'd  come.  ...  I  do  wish  they'd 
come!"  she  sighed.  Then,  turning  to  "Tubby,"  she 
said:  "Cheer  up!     What's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right."  He  moved  uneasily.  She  fan- 
cied that  he  glanced  with  anger  at  a  fat,  black-haired, 


LOIS  DKAKE  169 

befringed  man  near  him  who,  as  she  already  noticed, 
stared  at  her. 

"Oh,  I  do  wish  they'd  come!"  she  cried,  speaking 
more  loudly  than  she  had  intended.  Some  man  near 
her  heard  her  and  laughed. 

Th^  came  at  last.  The  tall  fellow  was  Goddard. 
The  shorter  man  in  the  dull-coloured  dressing-gown 
was  Beckett.  They  walked  about  inside  the  ring;  then 
they  sat  down  and  were  hidden  by  a  cloud  of  men  with 
towels.  A  little  man  walked  about  the  ring  shouting 
something  through  a  megaphone. 

Lois  could  not  hear  what  he  said  because  of  her  own 
excitement.  The  ring  was  cleared ;  the  fight  had  begun. 
The  breathless  silence  that  followed  was  almost  more 
than  she  could  bear.  From  the  first  moment  she  wanted 
Beckett  to  win.  His  grim  seriousness  fascinated  her. 
The  way  that  he  stood  crouching  forward,  his  magnifi- 
cent condition,  the  brown  healthiness  of  his  skin,  ap- 
pealed to  her  desperately.  "I  want  him  to  win!  I 
want  him  to  win!"  she  repeated  again  and  again  to 
herself.  He  seemed  to  be  having  the  best  of  it.  Men 
shouted  his  name.  The  first  round  was  over.  In  the 
pause  of  the  interval  she  realised  for  a  moment,  as 
though  she.  had  come  down  from  a  great  height,  that 
the  men  near  her  were  looking  at  her  and  smiling.  She 
did  not  care;  if  only  Beckett  would  win  she  cared  for 
nothing.  "The  first  round's  Beckett's  on  points,  any- 
way," she  heard  a  man  say  near  her.  The  ring  was 
cleared  agaiu,  the  men  moved  cautiously,  watching  one 
another.  Suddenly  Beckett  had  sprung  in.  Before  she 
could  account  to  herself  for  what  was  happening  God- 


ITO        THE  THIRTEEN"  TEAVELLERS 

dard  was  on  the  floor.  Men  rose  in  their  seats,  shout- 
ing. The  referee  could  he  seen  counting  the  seconds. 
Goddard  was  up.  Then  Beckett  was  in  to  him  again — 
right,  left,  tuned  like  a  piece  of  music.  Goddard  was 
down  again,  and  this  time  he  lay  his  full  length  without 
moving.  The  vast  building  seemed  to  rise  like  the 
personification  of  one  exultant  man  and  shout.  Lois 
herself  had  risen;  she  was  crying  she  knew  not  what, 
waving  her  programme.  A  man  had  leaped  forward 
and  kissed  Beckett.  Goddard  was  dragged  by  his  sec- 
onds like  a  sack  to  his  chair.  The  roar  continued ;  men 
shouted  and  yelled  and  cheered.  Lois  sat  down.  It 
was  over;  Beckett  had  won.  She  had  had  her  desire. 
She  felt  as  though  she  had  walked  for  miles  and  miles 
through  thick,  difficult  country. 

She  could  only  see,  over  and  over  again  those  quick 
blows — right,  left,  like  a  piece  of  music.  .  .  . 

They  sat  there  quietly  for  a  little;  then  she  said, 
"Let's  go.     I  don't  want  to  see  any  more  after  that." 

Grenfell  agreed. 

Outside  there  was  a  strange  peace  and  quiet.  A  large 
crowd  waited,  but  it  was  silent.  It  was  watching  for 
Beckett. 

The  street  was  deliciously  cool,  and  in  the  broad 
space  beyond  Olympia  there  was  only  a  rumbling  sibi- 
lant rustle  that  threaded  the  dusky  trees.  The  stars 
shone  in  a  sky  of  velvet.     They  found  a  taxi. 

"I'll  see  you  to  your  door,"  "Tubby"  said. 

During  the  drive  very  few  words  were  spoken.  Lois 
was  concentrating  now  all  her  effort  on  the  scene  that 
was  to  come.     She  was  quite  certain  of  her  victory; 


LOIS  DKAKE  171 

she  felt  strong  and  sure  with  the  confidence  that  the 
thrill  of  the  fight  had  just  given  her.  Above  all,  she 
loved  Grenfell.  It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that 
she  had  known  love,  and  now  that  it  had  come  she  was 
wrapped  in  the  wonder  of  it,  stripped  of  all  her  artifices 
and  conceits,  as  simply  and  naturally  caught  by  it  as  any 
ignorant  girl  of  her  grandmother's  day. 

They  were  in  Duke  Street;  the  car  stopped  before 
Hortons. 

Grenfell  got  out. 

"Good-night,"  he  said.  "I'm  so  awfully  glad  you  en- 
joyed it." 

"No,  you've  got  to  come  in.  You  have,  really, 
'Tubby.'  It's  very  early — not  ten  yet.  I'll  make  you 
some  coffee." 

He  looked  for  a  moment  as  though  he  would  refuse. 
Then  he  nodded  his  head. 

"All  right,"  he  said;  "just  for  a  bit."  They  went 
up  in  the  lift  superintended  by  young  William,  one  of 
the  Hortons  officials,  in  age  about  fourteen,  but  dressed, 
with  his  oiled  hair,  high  collar,  and  uniform,  to  be  any- 
thing over  twenty. 

"Oh,  sir,  who  won  the  fight?"  he  asked  in  a  husky 
voice  when  he  heard  Lois  make  some  allusion  to 
Olympia. 

"Beckett,"  said  Grenfell. 

"Gawd  bless  Joe,"  said  young  William  piously. 

The  "attic"  looked  very  comfortable  and  cosy. 
Grenfell  sank  into  the  long  sofa.  Lois  made  the  coffee. 
It  was  as  though  Beckett's  victory  had  also  been  hers. 
She  felt  as  though  she  could  not  be  defeated.     When 


172         THE  THIETEEJ^  TRAVELLEKS 

she  saw  him  sitting  there  so  comfortably  she  felt  as 
though  they  were  already  married. 

She  knew  that  there  was  something  on  his  mind.  She 
had  seen,  ever  since  they  left  Olympia,  that  there  was 
something  that  he  wanted  to  sav  to  her.     She  could 

CD  t/' 

not  doubt  what  it  was.  .  .  .  She  stood  there  smiling 
at  him  as  he  drank  his  coffee.  How  she  loved  him ! 
Every  hair  of  his  round  bullet-shaped  head,  his  rosy 
cheeks,  his  strength  and  cleanliness,  his  shyness  and 
honesty. 

"Oh,  I've  just  loved  to-night !" 

"I'm  so  glad  you  have,"  he  answered. 

Another  long  silence  followed.  He  smoked,  blowing 
rings  and  then  breaking  them  with  his  finger.  At  last 
she  spoke,  smiling : 

"  'Tubby,'  you  want  to  say  something  to  me." 

"Well " 

"Yes,  you  do,  and  I  know  what  it  is." 

"You  know  ?"     He  stared  at  her,  confused  and  shy. 

"Yes,"  she  laughed.  "Of  course  I  do.  I've  known 
for  weeks." 

"For  weeks  ?     But  you  can't " 

"Oh,  you  think  you  can  hide  things — ^you  can't!" 
She  suddenly  came  over  to  him,  knelt  down  by  the  sofa, 
putting  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"You  ridiculous  baby !  You're  shy.  You're  afraid 
to  tell  me.  But,  thank  Heaven,  all  that  old-fashioned 
nonsense  is  over.  I  can  tell  you  what  you  want  to  say 
without  either  of  us  being  ashamed  .  .  .  'Tubby,' 
darling  ...  I  know.  I've  known  for  weeks,  and  it's 
all  right.     I'll  marry  you  to-morrow  if  you  want  me. 


LOIS  DEAKE  173 

I've  loved  yon   sinco  first  I   set  eyes  on  you.     Oh, 
Tubby/  we'll  be  so  happy !     We " 

But  she  was  stopped  by  the  look  in  his  eyes.  He 
had  moved  away;  his  face  was  crimson;  his  eyes  wide 
with  dismay.  She  knew  at  once  that  she  had  made  a 
horrible  mistake.  He  didn't  love  her.  She  rose; 
shame,  misery,  anger,  self-contempt,  all  struggling  to- 
gether in  her  heart.  She  would  have  liked  to  speak. 
No  words  would  come. 

"Lois!"  he  said  at  last.  "I'm  awfully  sorry.  I 
didn't  know  you  were  going  to  say  that,  or  I'd  have 
stopped  you.  We're  the  greatest  pals  in  the  world,  of 
course,  but " 

"You  don't  want  to  marry  me,"  Lois  interrupted. 
"Of  course.  It's  quite  natural.  I've  made  a  bit  of  a 
fool  of  myself,  'Tubby.'  You'd  better  say  good-night 
and  go." 

He  got  up. 

"Oh,  Lois,  I'm  so  sorry.  .  .  .  But  I  couldn't  telL 
I've  had  something  else  on  my  mind  all  these  weeks — 
something  that  for  the  last  three  days  I've  been  trying 
to  tell  you.     Margery  and  I  are  engaged  to  be  married." 

That  took  the  colour  from  her  face.  She  stepped 
back,  putting  one  hand  on  the  mantelpiece  to  steady 
herself. 

"Mai'gery!  .  .  .  You!     That  stupid  little  idiot !" 

There  she  made  a  mistake.  He  took  her  retort  as  a 
dog  takes  a  douse  of  water,  shaking  his  head  resent- 
fully. 

"You  mustn't  say  that,  Lois.  And  after  all,  it  was 
you  that  brought  us  together." 


174        THE  THIKTEE:^^  TRAVELLEES 

"I!"  Her  indignation  as  she  turned  on  him  was 
red-hot. 

"Yes.  I  was  sorry  for  her  when  you  turned  her  off. 
I  went  to  see  her.  We  agi'eed  about  you  from  the  be- 
ginning, and  that  was  a  bond." 

"Agreed  about  me?" 

"Yes.  We  thought  it  was  such  a  pity  that  you  went 
about  with  all  these  men.  She  told  me  how  splendid 
you  were  in  France.  She  had  thought  that  I  was  in 
love  with  you,  but  I  told  her  of  course  that  I'd  always 
thought  of  you  as  a  man  almost.  Love  was  a  different 
sort  of  thing.  .  .  .  Although  to-night  at  the  boxing  you 
weren't  a  man,  either.     Anyway " 

She  cut  short  his  halting,  confused  explanation  with 
contempt. 

"You'd  better  go.  You  and  Margery  have  treated 
me  pretty  badly  between  you.     Good-night." 

He  tried  to  say  something,  but  the  sight  of  her  furious 
eyes  checked  him.  Without  another  word  he  went. 
The  door  closed ;  the  room  was  suddenly  intensely  silent, 
as  though  it  were  waiting  to  hear  the  echo  of  his  step. 

She  stood,  fury,  contempt,  working  in  her  face.  Sud- 
denly her  eyes  flooded  with  tears.  Her  brow  puckered. 
She  flung  herself  down  on  the  floor  beside  the  sofa, 
and  burying  her  face  in  it  cried,  with  complete  aban- 
donment, from  her  breaking  heart. 


IX 
"  MR.  NIX 

MR.  NIX,  the  manager  of  Hortons,  had  never 
been  an  analyser  of  the  human  character:  it 
startled  him,  therefore,  considerably,  somewhere  about 
March  or  April  of  1919,  to  find  himself  deep  in  intro- 
spection. 
^  What  is  deep  to  one  may  not  be  deep  to  another,  and 
Mr.  Nix's  introspection  amounted  to  little  more  than 
that  he  felt,  as  he  found  himself  confiding  to  a  friend 
(  one  evening,  as  though  he  ''were  nothing  more  or  less 
than  a  blooming  juggler — one  of  those  fellows,  Joe,  that 
tosses  eight  or  ten  balls  in  the  air  at  a  time.  That's 
what  I'm  doing,  positively." 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  his  friend,  "what  you're  doing, 
Sam,  is  thinking  too  much  about  yourself — being  mor- 
bidly introspective,  that's  what  you're  being.  I  should 
drop  it.     That  kind  of  thing  grows." 

"No,  am  I  really  ?"  said  Mr.  Nix,  anxiously.  "Upon 
my  word,  Joe,  I  believe  you're  right." 

What  Mr.  Nix  meant,  however,  when  he  said  that  he 

felt  like  a  trick  juggler,  was  literally  true.     He  not  only 

felt  like  it,  he  dreamt  it.     This  dream  was  recurrent; 

he  saw  himself,  dressed  in  purple  tights,  one  foot  on  a 

rope,  the  other  in  mid-air,  and  tossing  a  dozen  golden 

balls.     Beneath  him,  far,  far  beneath  him,  was  the  saw- 

175 


K 


176         THE  THIKTEE:N"  TEAYELLERS 

dust  ring,  tiers  of  people  rising  to  either  side  of  it 
Tlie  balls  glittered  and  winked  and  tumbled  in  the  fierce 
electric  light.  Always  they  returned  to  him  as  though 
drawn  towards  his  stomach  by  a  magnet,  but  always 
present  with  him  was  the  desperate  fear  lest  one  should 
avoid  and  escape  him.  The  sweat  stood  in  beads  on 
his  forehead ;  the  leg  upon  which  everything  depended 
began  to  tremble.  The  balls  seemed  to  develop  a  wild 
individuality  of  their  own:  they  winked  at  him,  they 
sniggered.  They  danced  and  mocked  and  dazzled.  He 
missed  one,  he  missed  two,  three  .  .  .  the  crowd  be- 
neath him  began  to  shout  ...  he  swerved,  he  jolted, 
he  was  over,  he  was  falling,  the  balls  swinging  in  laugh- 
ing derision  about  him  .  .  .  falling,  falling.  .  .  .  He 
was  awake. 

This  dream  came  to  him  so  often  that  he  consulted 
a  doctor.  The  doctor  consoled  him,  telling  him  that 
everyone  was  having  bad  dreams  just  now,  that  it  was 
the  natural  reaction  after  the  four  years  of  stress  and 
turmoil  through  which  we  have  passed.  "You  yourself, 
Mr.  'Nix,  have  had  your  troubles  I  don't  doubt  ?" 

Yes,  Mr.  Nix  had  lost  his  only  son. 

"Ah,  well,  that  is  quite  enough  to  account  for  it. 
Don't  eat  a  heavy  meal  at  night.  Sleep  lightly  cov- 
ered .  .  .  plenty  of  fresh  air." 

This  intei^view  only  confii*med  Mr.  Nix  in  his  already 
deep  conviction  that  all  doctors  were  humbugs. 

"The  matter  with  me,"  he  said  to  himself,  "is  just 
this,  that  I've  got  too  much  to  do." 

Nineteen  hundred  and  nineteen  was  a  very  difficult 
year  for  anyone  engaged  in  such  business  as  Hortons. 


MR.  NIX  177 

That  spontaneous  hem-  or  two  of  mirth  and  happiness 
on  the  morning  of  the  Armistice  had  its  origin  in  the 
general  hmnan  belief  that  the  troubles  of  those  night- 
mare years  were  now  over.  At  once,  as  though  the 
Fairy  Firkin  had  waved  her  wand,  the  world  would 
be  chatiged.  The  world  mas  changed,  but  only  because 
a  new  set  of  difficulties  and  problems  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  old  ones,  and  these  new  troubles  were  in 
many  ways  harder  to  fight.  That  was  a  year  of  baffle- 
ment, bewilderment,  disappointment,  suspicion.  Quite 
rightly  so — but  the  justice  of  it  could  not  be  seen  by  the 
actors  in  it. 

Mr.  ]Srix  was  making  a  brave  fight  of  it,  just  as 
throughout  the  war  he  had  made  a  brave  fight.  He  was 
a  little  man  with  a  buoyant  temperament,  and  no  touch 
of  morbidity.  His  boy's  death  had  shocked  him  as 
an  incredible  event,  but  he  had  forbidden  it  to  change 
the  course  of  his  life,  and  it  remained  deep  down,  un- 
seen, a  wound  that  never  healed  and  was  never 
examined. 

His  emban-assments — the  balls  with  which  he  was 
forever  a-juggling — were  in  the  main  four.  First,  the 
Directors  in  whose  power  the  fate  of  Hortons  and  sev- 
eral other  sei-vice  flats  lay.  Secondly,  Hortons  itself, 
its  servants,  its  tenants,  the  furniture,  its  food,  its 
finances,  its  marriages,  births,  and  deaths.  Thirdly, 
his  own  private  speculations,  his  little  private  business 
enterprises,  his  pals,  his  games,  his  vices,  and  his  ambi- 
tions.    Fourth,  his  wife,  Nancy. 

Those  four  "elements"  had  all  been  complicated 
enough  before  the  war ;  it  would  take  a  man  all  his  time, 


178        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

lie  used  to  say,  to  deal  with  the  Board — nice  enough 
men,  but  peremptory  in  many  ways,  not  understanding, 
and  always  in  a  hurry. 

He  had  spent  the  best  years  of  his  life  in  persuading 
those  men  that  Hortons  was  the  best  sei-rice  flat  in 
London;  they  did  at  length  believe  that;  they  were 
satisfied;  but  having  brought  them  to  such  a  height 
they  must  be  maintained  there.  The  war  brought  dis- 
content, of  course.  Only  the  old  men  were  active  on 
the  board,  and  the  old  men  had  always  been  the  trying 
ones  to  deal  with.  The  war,  as  it  dragged  its  weary 
coils  along,  brought  nerves  and  melodrama  with  it 
Only  Mr.  Nix,  it  seemed,  in  all  the  world,  was  allowed 
to  be  neither  nervous  nor  melodramatic.  He  must 
never  show  anger  nor  disappointment  nor  a  sense  of  in- 
justice .  .  .  there  were  days  he  honestly  confessed  to 
Nancy,  his  wife,  when  he  longed  to  pull  some  of  those 
old  white  beards.  .  .  . 

But  worse  than  those  old  men  were  the  tenants  of 
Hortons  themselves.  Here  was  a  golden  ball  of  tmly 
stupendous  heaviness  and  eccentricity.  The  things  they 
had  demanded,  the  wild,  unnatural,  impossible  things! 
And  the  things  that  Hortons  itself  demanded!  To 
Hortons  the  war  was  as  nothing.  It  must  be  fed, 
clothed,  cleaned,  just  as  it  had  always  been!  You 
might  shout  to  it  about  the  prices,  the  laziness  of  work- 
men, the  heaviness  of  taxation.  It  did  not  care.  The 
spirit  of  Hortons  must  be  maintained :  it  might  as  well 
not  exist  as  be  less  than  the  fine  creation  it  had  always 
been. 

As  to  the  third  of  Mr.  Nix's  "elements,"  his  private 


MK.  NIX  179 

life,  that  had  dwindled  until  it  was  scarcely  visible. 
He  had  no  private  life.  He  did  not  want  to  have  one 
now  that  his  son,  who  had  been  so  deeply  connected 
with  it,  was  gone.  Everything  that  he  had  done  he 
had  done  for  his  son :  that  was  his  future.  He  did  not 
look  td  the  future  now,  but  worked  for  the  day,  and 
rather  to  his  owni  surprise,  for  Hortons,  which  had 
become  a  concrete  figure,  gay,  debonair,  autocratic.  .  .  . 

His  personal  life  dropped.  He  saw  little  of  his 
friends,  never  passed  the  doors  of  his  club,  sat  at  home 
in  the  evenings,  reading  first  the  Times,  then  the  Morrir 
ing  Post,  then  the  Daily  News.  He  liked  to  have  an 
all-round  view  of  the  situation. 

It  was  his  sense  of  Fair  Play. 

In  this  way  the  third  wheel  of  his  life  infringed  upon 
and  influenced  the  fourth,  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Nix,  whose  maiden  name  had  been  Nancy  Rolls, 
was  '^about"  forty  years  of  age.  Even  Mr.  Nix  was 
not  quite  sure  how  old  she  was :  it  was  her  way  to  ex- 
claim, with  her  hearty,  cheerful  laugh :  ''We're  all  get- 
ting on,  you  know.  There  was  a  time  when  to  be  thirty 
seemed  to  be  as  good  as  dead.  .  .  .  Now  that  I'm  over 
thirty.  .  .  ."  She  was  round,  plump,  red-faced, 
brown-haired,  with  beseeching  eyes,  and  a  little  brown 
mole  on  the  middle  of  her  left  cheek.  She  dressed 
just  a  little  too  smartly,  with  a  little  too  much  colour. 
Mr.  Nix,  himself  attached  to  colour,  did  not  notice  this. 
He  liked  to  see  her  gay.  "Nancy's  a  real  sport,"  was 
his  favourite  exclamation  about  her.  He  had  married 
her  when  she  was  a  "baby"  seventeen  years  of  age. 
They  had  been  gi-eat  "pals"  ever  since.     Sentiment  had 


180         THE  THIKTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

perhaps  gone  a  little  out  of  their  relationship.  They 
were  both  deeply  sentimental  people,  but  for  some 
reason  sentiment  was  the  last  thing  that  they  evoked 
from  one  another.  The  death  of  their  boy  Lancelot 
should  have  brought  them  together  emotionally,  but  their 
attitude  had  been,  for  so  long,  that  of  an  almost  mascu- 
line good  cheer  and  good  humour,  that  they  bore  their 
great  sorrow  individually.  They  had  forgotten  the 
language  of  emotion. 

Mr.  Nix,  in  the  deep  recesses  of  his  soul,  pondered 
over  this.  He  wanted  now  to  get  closer  to  Nancy.  He 
was  sure  that  she  felt  "our  Lance's"  death  quite  des- 
perately, but  after  the  shock  of  the  first  month  she 
put  on  her  bright  clothes  again,  and  went  about  to  the 
theatre  and  entertained  her  friends.  "There's  enough 
misery  in  the  world  without  my  trying  to  add  to  it," 
she  would  say.  "I  know  some  people  think  it's  bad  of 
me  to  wear  these  clothes,  but  it  is  what  Lance  would 
have  liked." 

As  they  sat  in  their  cosy  little  flat,  perched  high  on 
the  top  floor  of  Hortons,  evening  after  evening,  Mr. 
Nix  with  the  paper,  Mrs.  Nix  with  a  novel,  they  were 
both  perhaps  conscious  that  the  boy's  death  had  made  a 
barrier,  and  as  they  lay  side  by  side  in  their  bed  at  night 
they  were  still  more  conscious  of  this.  The  darkness 
semed  to  strip  from  them  that  lively  exterior  life  that 
they  had  developed.  Mr.  Nix  would  lie  there  and  think 
about  Nancy  for  hours.  .  .  . 

In  the  daytime  indeed,  his  hands  were  full.  The 
servants  alone  were  problem  enough  for  anybody.  First, 
the  men  all  went  away  to  the  war,  and  he  had  to  have 


MR.  NIX  181 

women — women  for  everything,  women  for  the  kitchen, 
women  for  the  hall,  women  valets.  And  then,  just  as 
he  was  getting  used  to  them,  the  men  began  to  come 
back — or  rather,  he  had  to  get  new  men,  men  who  must 
be  taught  their  jobs,  and  learn  his  niles,  and  fall  in  with 
his  ways. 

Fortunately  he  was  blessed  with  a  wonderful  portress, 
Fanny.  Fanny,  on  whom,  after  a  time,  the  whole  great 
establishment  seemed  to  hang.  But  what  did  Fanny 
do  but  become  restless  after  the  Armistice,  fall  a  victim 
to  a  conscience  which  persuaded  her  that  she  was,  by 
remaining,  keeping  a  man  out  of  his  proper  job,  and, 
when  he  had  persuaded  her  over  that  difficulty,  what 
should  she  do  then  but  become  engaged  to  one  of  the 
valets,  whom  she  presently  married.  Then  the  tenants 
of  the  flats  were  disturbed  and  agitated  by  the  general 
unrest.  Poor  old  Mr.  Jay  was  so  deeply  agitated  by 
the  new  world  that  he  died  of  the  shock  of  it,  and  as 
though  that  were  not  enough,  old  Miss  Morganhurst 
went  out  of  her  mind,  and  died  in  a  fit. 

It  became  more  and  more  difficult  to  secure  the  right 
kind  of  tenants.  Hiortons  had  always  been  a  very  ex- 
pensive place,  and  only  wealthy  people  could  afford  to 
live  there.  But  how  strange  now  the  people  who  had 
money !  A  young  man  like  the  Hon.  Clive  Torby,  rep- 
resentative of  one  of  the  finest  families  in  England, 
found  suddenly  that  he  had  not  a  penny  in  the  world, 
and  gaily  took  to  house-painting,  while  on  the  other 
side  of  the  shield  there  were  people  like  the  Bodding- 
tons,  who  simply  did  not  know  how  to  behave,  who, 


182         THE  THIETEEI^  TEAVELLERS 

wealthy  tlioiigh  they  were,  should  never  have  been  in 
Hortons  at  all. 

Then  again,  Mr.  JSTix  was  most  seriously  disturbed 
by  the  strange  new  interchanging  of  the  sexes  that 
seemed  to  have  sprung  up  in  this  post-war  England. 
"Positively,"  he  said  to  his  wife  one  evening,  "all  the 
men  seem  to  be  turning  into  women,  and  all  the  women 
into  men."  He  read  an  article  in  some  paper  that 
lamented  the  rapidity  with  which  women  were  abandon- 
ing all  the  mysteries  that  had  made  them  once  so  charm- 
ing. How  thoroughly  Mr.  Nix  agi'eed  with  the  writer 
of  the  article!  Hb  read  it  all  through  to  Mrs.  Nix, 
who  was  entirely  in  accord  with  every  word  of  it. 

"The  girls  are  nothing  better  than  baggages,"  she 
declared;  "that's  my  belief." 

Hortons,  its  dignity,  its  traditions,  its  morality,  was 
in  danger.  "I'll  save  it  if  I  have  to  die  for  it,"  Nix 
declared. 

As  the  weeks  advanced  his  troubles  extended.  One 
strike  followed  another — coal,  food,  labour,  clothes,  all 
faltered,  died,  were  revived  again.  Mr.  Robsart,  the 
famous  novelist,  his  most  eminent  tenant,  awoke  early 
one  morning  to  find  a  pipe  leaking.  His  dining-room 
wall  paper — a  very  beautiful  and  exclusive  one — devel- 
oped bright  pink  and  purple  spots.  It  was  weeks  be^ 
fore  anything  could  be  done.  Mr.  Robsart,  who  had 
been  led  by  an  excited  female  public  to  believe  his  per- 
sonality to  be  one  upon  which  the  sun  never  set,  said 
what  he  thought  about  this.  The  balls  faltered  in  the 
air,  their  glittering  surfaces  menacing  and  threatening. 


MK.  N'lX  183 

The  tight-rope  trembled;  the  crowd  roared  like  angry- 
beasts.  .  .  .  This  dream  was  ruining  Mr.  Nix. 

And  through  it  all,  like  a  refrain  that  set  rhythm  and 
measure  to  the  rest,  was  the  sense  that  he  ought  to  do 
"something"  for  Mrs.  Nix,  that  she  was  unhappy,  but 
would  not  tell  him  about  her  unhappiness,  that  he  should 
come  closer  to  her,  and  did  not  know  how. 

Into  this  new  troubled  confusion  of  Mr.  Mx's  life 
came  a  figure.  One  day  a  young  man  who  had  known 
Lancelot  in  France  came  to  see  them.  His  name  was 
Harry  Harper.  He  was  little  more  than  a  boy,  was  in 
the  London  Joint  City  and  Midland  Bank,  and  was  as 
fresh  and  charming  a  lad  as  you  would  be  likely  to 
find  anywhere.  Mr.  Nix  liked  him  at  once.  In  the 
first  place,  he  had  many  new  things  to  tell  about  Lance, 
and  he  told  them  in  just  the  right  way,  with  sentiment, 
but  not  too  much,  with  humour  a  little,  and  with  real 
appreciation  of  Lance's  bravery,  and  his  popularity 
with  his  men,  and  his  charm  wnth  everyone. 

Mrs.  Nix  sat  there,  on  her  bright  red  sofa,  whilst 
young  Harper  told  his  tale,  and  her  face  was  as  red 
as  the  furniture.  The  tears  glittered  in  her  eyes,  but 
they  did  not  fall.  Her  plump  hands  were  locked  lightly 
on  her  lap.  She  stared  before  her  as  though  she  were 
seeing  straight  through  into  the  horrors  of  that  terrible 
No  Man's  Land,  where  her  boy  had  faced  the  best  and 
the  worst  and  made  his  choice. 

"He  was  always  a  good  boy,"  she  said  at  last.  "You 
will  understand,  Mr.  Harper,  I'm  sure.  From  his  very 
cradle  he  was  good.  He  never  cried  like  other  babies 
and  made  a  fuss.     Of  course,  as  he  grew  older  he  had 


184        THE  THIETEEN  TKAVELLEES 

a  little  of  the  devil  in  him,  as  one  might  say.  I'm  sure 
no  mother  would  have  it  otherwise.  But — Oh!  he 
was  a  good  hoy !" 

''There,  there,  mother,"  said  Mr.  ISTix,  patting  her 
soft  shoulder.  "I'm  sure  it's  very  good  of  you,  Mr. 
Harper,  to  come  and  tell  us  all  this.  You  can  under- 
stand that  we  appreciate  it." 

Young  Harper  took  it  all  the  right  way.  HHs  tact 
was  wonderful  for  a  boy  of  his  years.  Mr.  Kix,  who, 
like  most  Englishmen,  was  a  deep-dyed  sentimentalist 
without  knowing  it,  loved  the  boy. 

''You  come  and  see  us  whenever  you  like.  We're 
in  most  evenings.  You'll  always  be  welcome." 
Harper  availed  himself  of  the  invitation  and  came  very 
often.  He  was  leading,  it  seemed,  a  lonely  life.  His 
parents  lived  in  ^Newcastle  and  they  had  many  children. 
His  lodgings  were  far  away  in  Pimlico,  and  he  had 
few  friends  in  London.  Before  a  month  had  passed 
he  was  occupying  a  little  spare  bedroom  in  the  Nix 
quarters — a  very  little  bedroom,  but  wonderful  for 
him,  he  declared,  being  so  marvellously  in  the  centre  of 
London.  "You've  given  me  a  home,"  he  cried ;  "can't 
thank  you  enough.  You  don't  know  what  Pimlico 
can  be  for  a  fellow!" 

As  the  days  passed  Mr.  Nix  was  more  and  more 
delighted  with  the  arrangement.  Mrs.  Nix  had  a 
way  of  going  to  bed  early  and  Mr.  Nix  and  HIarry  would 
sit  up  talking.  Mr.  Nix  looked  forward  to  those  even- 
ings. He  had,  he  discovered,  been  wanting  someone 
with  whom  he  might  talk,  and  clear  his  ideas  a  bit. 
Harry,  although  he  was  so  young,  had  really  thought 


MR  NIX  185 

very  deeply.  Mr.  Nix,  whose  thinking  was  rather  of 
an  amateur  kind,  very  quickly  forgot  the  difference 
between  their  years.  Harry  and  he  talked  as  man  to 
man.  If  anything,  Hariy  was  perhaps  the  older  of 
the  two.  .  .  . 

Mrr  Nix  found  that  it  helped  him  very  much  when 
Hai*ry  talked.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  balancing  so 
many  balls  in  mid-air  when  Hariy  was  sharing  his 
difficulties. 

The  boy  had,  too,  a  chai-m.  His  air  of  asking  Mr. 
Nix's  advice,  as  a  man  of  the  world.  That  was  what 
Mr.  Nix  liked  to  be  considered,  and  he  told  Harry 
many  sensible  things,  especially  about  women. 

"Don't  let  them  catch  you,"  was  the  burden  of  his 
opinion.  "They  are  the  devil  for  getting  hold  of  a 
man  before  he  knows  where  he  is.  Play  with  them, 
but  don't  take  them  seriously,  until  the  right  one 
comes  along.  You'll  know  it  as  soon  as  she  does.  So 
much  wdser  to  wait.  But  they're  clever  .  .  .  damned 
clever.  ..." 

"You're  right,  sir,"  said  Harry.  " Ab-so-lute-ly :  I 
remember  a  girl  once " 

He  plunged  into  reminiscence.  Finally,  however, 
he  declared  that  he  didn't  care  very  much  about 
women.  He  meant  to  lead  his  life  apart  from  them. 
He'd  watched  other  fellows   and  he  knew  the  mess 

they      could      get      into Especially      murried 

women.  .  .  . 

"Ah!  married  women!"  repeated  Mr.  Nix  with  a 
sigh.  There  wasn't  much  that  he  didn't  know  about 
mamed  women.     It  was  ten-ible  the  way  that  they 


186        THE  THIETEEN  TEAVELLEKS 

were  kicking  over  the  traces  these  days.  Eeally 
stopped  at  nothing.  Why,  he  remembered  a  married 
woman.   .   .  . 

Then  Harry  remembered  a  married  woman.  .  .  . 

Then  Mr.  Nix  remembered  still  another  married 
woman. 

This  led  quite  naturally  to  certain  disclosures  about 
Mrs.  Nix.  Mr.  Nix  had  indeed  reasons  to  be  thank- 
ful. There  was  a  woman  who  was  cornipted  by  none 
of  these  modern  ideas. 

She  was  no  prude,  she  knew  her  world,  but  she  be- 
lieved in  the  good  old  rules — "One  man  for  one 
woman." 

''It's  been  a  bit  lonely  for  her,"  Mr.  Nix  continued, 
"since  Lancelot  went,  and  it's  a  bit  difficult  to  make 
her  happy.  I'm  so  busy  all  day,  you  see.  Takes  the 
whole  of  a  man's  time  to  run  a  place  like  this  nowa- 
days, I  can  tell  you.  Be  nice  to  her,  Harry.  See  as 
much  of  her  as  you  can.     She  likes  you." 

"Indeed,  I  will,"  said  Harry  fervently.  "You  two 
are  the  first  real  friends  I've  ever  had.  I'm  grateful, 
I  can  tell  you." 

Now,  strangely  enough,  the  more  Mr.  Nix  thought 
of  his  wife,  the  more  seriously  and  earnestly  he  puz- 
zled as  to  the  right  way  to  bring  her  close  to  him,  and 
make  her  happy,  the  less  he  seemed  to  realise  her. 
/  There  comes,  perhaps,  that  moment  in  most  married 
^  lives  when  the  intimacy  of  years  has  thickened  the 
personalities  of  man  and  wife  so  deeply  with  custom 
and  habit  that  the  real  individualities  can  no  longer 
,  be   discerned.     Something  of  the  kind   came  now  to 


MR.  NIX  187 

Mr.  Nix.  The  more  he  attempted  to  draw  closer  to 
Nancy,  the  more  he  realised  that  he  was  hearing  a 
voice,  watching  a  physical  form,  having  physical  con- 
tact, but  dealing  with  shadows.  He  knew  so  precisely 
her  every  movement,  her  laugh,  the  way  that  she 
caught^her  breath  when  she  was  agitated,  the  touch  of 
her  step  on  the  carpet,  that  she  was  no  longer  a  person 
at  all.  She  was  part  of  himself,  perhaps,  but  a  part 
of  himself  that  he  could  not  treat  with  his  imagination. 
He  had  not  known  before  that  he  had  an  imagination. 
The  war  had  given  it  birth  and  now  it  was  gTowing, 
demanding  food,  living,  thrusting,  experiencing,  lead- 
ing its  master  into  many  queer  places — but  neglecting 
altogether  Mrs.  Nix. 

He  found  himself,  as  he  sat  in  his  little  office  down- 
stairs, positively  trying  to  force  himself  to  realise  what 
his  wife  was  like.  She  had  bright  yellow  hair,  a  rosy 
face,  a  plump  figure;  she  wore  two  rings,  one  with  a 
ruby  stone,  another  a  pearl.  She  was  marvellously 
young  for  her  age.  .  .  .  She  ... 

Then,  when  with  a  start  of  surprise  he  realised  what 
he  was  doing,  he  wondered  positively  whether  he  were 
not  going  mad.  He  buried  himself  more  and  more 
in  the  work  of  the  place,  of  the  office,  fighting  to  keep 
everything  straight  and  proper,  realising,  although  he 
was  frightened  to  admit  it,  that  Hortons  was  more 
vivid  to  him  than  anything  or  anybody  else. 

Except  Harry!  "Thank  God  that  boy's  here,"  he 
thought.  "I  don't  know  what  we'd  do  without  hdm. 
That  vxis  a  piece  of  luck  for  us." 

He  lay  on  his  bed  staring  up  into  the  dark  ceiling; 


188        THE  THIETEEN  TEAVELLEES 

lie  heard  his  wife's  regular  breathing  at  his  side,  and 
he  saw,  there  in  the  liidng  dusk  above  him,  the  golden 
balls  dancing,  rising  and  falling,  multiplying,  dimin- 
ishing, tumbling  faster  and  faster  and  faster. 

Then,  with  the  months  of  June  and  July,  Mr.  'Nix 
was  given  very  little  more  time  in  which  to  speculate 
about  life,  women,  and  his  wife.  Everything  in  his 
business  affairs  became  so  complicated  that  his  life 
extended  into  a  real  struggle  for  existence.  He  had 
the  sense  that  Hortons,  which  had  hitherto  shown  him 
a  kindly,  friendly  face,  was  suddenly  hostile,  as 
though  it  said  to  him:  "Well,  I've  stood  your  hanky- 
panky  long  enough.  I'll  have  no  more  of  it.  I'm  fin- 
ished with  your  management  of  me!" 

Strange  how  a  building  suddenly  decides  to  fall 
to  pieces!  Hortons  so  decided.  Every  window,  every 
door,  every  pipe,  every  chimney  misbehaved;  tenants 
appeared  from  all  sides  bitterly  complaining.  Serv- 
ants rioted;  the  discontent  that  was  already  flooding 
the  world  poured  through  the  arteries  of  the  building, 
sweeping  it,  deluging. 

Mr.  Nix  showed  them  the  character  that  he  had. 
He  took  off  his  coat  and  set  to  work.  He  was  no  longer 
the  round  ball-like  little  man  with  the  cherubic  coun- 
tenance and  the  amiable  smile.  He  was  stem,  auto- 
cratic, unbending.  He  argued,  persuaded,  advised. 
He  wrote,  to  his  own  surprise,  a  very  stiff  letter  to  the 
Board  of  Directors,  telling  them  that  they  must  under- 
stand that  times  were  difficult.  Eome  wasn't  built 
in  a  day,  and  that  if  they  were  dissatisfied  with  him 
they  must  find  someone  else  in  his  place.     To  his 


ME.  NIX  180 

amazement,  lie  received  a  very  polite  letter  from  the 
Secretary  of  the  Board,  saying  that  the  Directors  were 
thoroughly  satisfied  with  him  and  had  no  complaints. 

He  went  on  during  that  month  from  struggle  to 
struggle.  He  forgot  Harry;  he  puzzled  no  longer 
about  3Irs.  Nix,  He  was  so  tired  when  night  came 
that  he  slept  the  sleep  of  a  drugged  man.  He  no 
longer  saw  the  dancing  balls.  He  was  invigorated, 
uplifted,  desperately  excited.  He  found  in  himself  a 
capacity  for  organisation  that  he  had  never  suspected. 
He  discovered  that  it  delighted  him  to  meet  and  to 
conquer  his  servants.  He  saw  in  their  eyes,  and  he 
was  delighted  to  see  it,  their  own  astonishment  at  this 
new  character  that  he  was  developing.  He  browbeat 
them,  told  them  to  go,  showed  them  that  they  had 
better  stay,  held  them  together  and  forced  them  to 
content.  They  were  afraid  of  him.  By  Jove ! — They 
were  afraid  of  him !  He  looked  at  himself  in  the 
glass.  He  blessed  the  crisis  that  had  shown  him  in 
his  true  colours.  He  contemplated  the  life  of 
Napoleon.  .  .  . 

He  went  out,  and  with  his  own  right  ann  fetched 
in  sulky  and  wage-demanding  workmen.  He  talked 
to  them  and  found  that  there  was  a  great  deal  to  be 
said  on  their  side. 

He  began  to  discover  that  strange  truth  that  almost 
everyone  was  discovering  just  at  this  time — namely, 
that  when  you  read  the  papers  or  thought  of  your  fel- 
low human  beings  in  the  mass,  you  hated  and  despised 
them,  but  that,  if  you  talked  to  any  individual,  man 
or  woman,  you  liked  and  understood  them. 


190        THE  THIRTEE:^^  TRAVELLERS 

Pride  grew  in  his  heart,  and  happiness  and  content- 
ment 

By  the  middle  of  July  Hortons  was  itself  again. 
The  crisis  was  over.  Prices  were  impassible,  labour 
rebellious,  the  world  topsy-turvy,  but  Hortons  was  at 
peace.  He  sighed,  put  back  his  shoulders,  patted  his 
little  stomach  appreciatively,  loved  all  the  world  and, 
once  again,  considered  Mrs.  'Nix, 

He  would  give  her  now  all  his  time.  He  would  take 
her  out;  make  her  presents;  they  should  have  a  splen- 
did new  life  together. 

He  came  back  one  evening  after  a  successful  meet- 
ing with  the  Board,  opened  his  little  hall  door,  hung 
up  his  coat,  whistling  to  himself,  opened  his  drawing- 
room  door,  saw  Mrs.  Nix  on  the  red  sofa,  enveloped 
in  the  arms  of  Harry,  who  was  kissing  her  ears,  her 
eyes,  her  mouth. 

He  saw  this,  and  then  he  saw  the  neat  little  sitting- 
room  sway  and  heave.  A  bright  blue  vase,  holding 
yellow  sprays  of  some  dried  flower,  raced  towards  him 
across  the  mantelpiece,  and  he  stepped  back,  putting 
his  hand  on  to  a  chair  behind  him  to  avoid  its  contact. 
The  room  steadied  itself  and  he  realised  that  he  felt 
sick.  He  put  up  his  hand  to  his  mouth.  Then  every 
sensation  was  swallowed  up  by  a  mad,  violent  anger, 
an  anger  that  seemed  to  increase  with  every  wild  beat 
of  his  heart,  as  though  that  heart  were,  of  its  own 
purpose,  pounding  him  on  to  some  desperate  act. 

Behind  his  anger  he  saw  the  two  faces.  J^ancy  was 
sitting  square  on  the  sofa,  her  hands  spread  out,  plung- 
ing deep  into  the  red  stuff  of  the  sofa.     Harry  was 


ME.  OTX  191 

standing,  his  face  white,  his  eyes  bewildered  and  de- 
fiant. 

"You  might  at  least  have  locked  the  door,"  Mr.  N'ix 
said,  whispering. 

His  knees  trembled  so  that  he  suddenly  sat  down  and 
stared  across  at  them. 

"Why  didn't  you  lock  the  door  ?"  he  repeated.  "You 
knew  I'd  be  coming  back." 

"Look  here  .  .  ."  Harry  began.  He  stopped,  took 
a  pull  at  himself,  straightened  his  back,  stood  instinc- 
tively as  though  he  were  obeying  orders — "I  love  your 
wife.  I've  loved  her  for  weeks.  Of  course,  it's  all 
m}^  fault.  She  doesn't  care  for  me  in  that  way.  She's 
just  lonely,  that's  all." 

"Lonely!"  said  Mr.  Nix. 

"Yes — lonely!  You  don't  know  that  you've  been 
neglecting  her  all  this  time,  do  you?  But  you  have! 
And  it's  your  own  fault,  all  this.  Nothing's  happened. 
She'd  never  deceive  you.  She's  too  good  for  that. 
But  it  would  be  your  own  fault  if  she  did.  .  .  .  Not 
that  I'm  not  a  cad.  Of  course  I  am,  coming  in  and 
your  being  such  a  friend  to  me  and  then  behaving  like 
this.  I'm  a  cad  all  right,  but  you're  to  blame  too. 
She's  the  only  one  who  hasn't  done  any  wrong." 

Where  had  Mr.  Nix  heard  all  this  before?  He'd 
seen  it  on  the  stage.  Just  like  this.  Exactly.  Nev- 
ertheless, his  anger  mounted.  He  saw  the  room  col- 
oured crimson.  He  suddenly  bounded  from  his  chair 
and  rushed  at  Harry.  He  tried  to  hit  him  in  the  face. 
There  was  a  most  ludicrous  struggle.  The  two  hot 
faces   were   suddenly   close  to   one   another.     Then  a 


192        THE  THIETEEN"  TEAVELLEES 

chair  fell  with  a  crash,  and,  as  though  the  noise  made 
both  men  feel  the  absurdity  of  their  situation,  they 
withdrew  from  one  another  and  stood  there  glar- 
ing. .  .  . 

Mr.  ISTix  hated  that  he  should  be  trembling  as  he 
was.  Every  part  of  him  was  shaking,  and  he  was  so 
conscious  of  this  that  he  wanted  to  escape  and  return 
only  when  he  was  calmer. 

"Very  well  .  .  ."  he  said.  "Of  course,  I  know 
what  to  do.  I  hope  that  I  shall  never  see  either  of 
you  again." 

"One  moment."  It  was  his  wife's  voice,  and  he 
turned  round  surprised  that  it  should  sound  just  as 
it  had  always  sounded. 

That  was  pathetic,  and  there  was  an  impulse  in  him, 
that  he  instantly  fiercely  defeated,  to  go  to  her  and 
take  her  hand. 

"One  moment,"  she  repeated.  "I've  got  something 
to  say  to  this."  She  rose  and  stood,  her  hands  mov- 
ing nervously  against  her  dress,  her  eyes  staring 
straight  into  her  husband's  face.  "It's  quite  right  that 
I  was  kissing  Harry,  but  it  isn't  right  that  I  love  him. 
I  don't  love  him  a  bit.  I  don't  love  anybody.  I'm 
just  sick  of  men.  I've  been  sick  of  them  a  long  time. 
It  was  just  because  I  didn't  feel  Harry  was  a  man  at 
all  that  I  let  him  kiss  me.  A  dog  or  a  baby  would 
have  done  just  as  well.  ...  I  don't  care  what  you  do. 
You  can  turn  me  out.  I  want  to  be  turned  out.  I 
want  to  be  free,  I  want  to  be  with  women,  and  work 
on  my  own,  and  do  sensible  things,  and  have  my  own 
life  with  no  men  in  it.  .  .  .  Ko  men  in  it  anywhere. 


MR.  l^IX  193 

I've  been  wanting  this  for  years;  ever  since  the  war 
started.  The  world's  just  run  for  men  and  you  think 
you're  so  important  that  you're  everything.  But 
you're  not.  Not  to  a  woman  of  my  age  who's  been 
through  it  all,  and  hasn't  children.  What  have  I  been 
sitting  at  home  for,  waiting  for  you,  seeing  after  your 
food,  keeping  you  in  a  good  temper,  looking  after  you  ? 
Why  should  I?  I'm  myself — ^not  half  of  you.  And 
Harry  too.  He  was  a  nice  boy  at  first.  But  sud- 
denly he  wants  me  to  love  him,  to  belong  to  him,  to 
follow  him.  Why  should  I,  a  boy  like  that  ?  I  want 
to  be  with  other  women,  women  who  understand  me, 
women  who  know  how  I  feel,  women  \v^ho  have  their 
own  world  and  their  own  life,  and  are  independent  of 
men  altogether.  .  .  .  I've  wanted  to  go  for  months — 
and  now  I'm  going." 

She  moved  towards  the  door.  The  absurdity  of 
what  she  had  said  kept  him  standing  there  in  front 
of  her.  She  wanted  only  women !  Oh,  of  course,  that 
was  only  bluff,  put  up  to  carry  olf  a  difficult  situation. 

People  did  not  want  their  own  sex — a  man  for  a 
woman,  a  woman  for  a  man.  That  was  the  way  the 
world  went,  and  it  was  right  that  it  should  be  so. 

N^evertheless,  her  words  had  had  behind  them  a 
strange  ring  of  conviction.  He  stared  at  her  in  his 
round,  puzzled,  solid  way.  He  did  not  move  from 
where  he  was,  and  she  could  not  reach  the  door  without 
brushing  against  him,  so  she  also  stayed. 

Another  mood  came  to  her.  "Oh !  I'm  so  sorry 
.  .  ."  she  said.  "I've  done  very  wrong  to  hurt  you. 
You've  always  done  your  very  best,  but  it  was  over 


194        THE  THIRTEE:Nr  TRAVELLERS 

— jou  and  I — so  long  ago.     Long,  long  before  Lance 
was  killed!" 

"Over  ?"  lie  repeated. 

'TTes,  over — men  never  know  unless  it's  worth  some  / 
woman's  while  to  tell  them." 

Harry's  voice  broke  in. 

"I'd  better  go.  ...  I  ought  to  ...  I  mustn't 
.  .  ."  He  murmured  something  more,  but  thej 
neither  of  them  noticed  him.  They  were  intent  upon 
one  another.     He  left  the  room. 

Mr.  ^ix  stared  desolately  around  him.  "I  don't 
know  what  to  do,"  he  repeated  to  himself.  "I  don't 
know  what  to  do." 

She  sighed  as  she  might  have  done  with  a  child  who 
was  trying  her. 

"We've  both  got  to  think  it  out,"  she  said.  "I'm 
glad  now  that  it's  happened.  It  ends  all  that  false- 
ness.    I'll  talk  it  over  with  you  as  long  as  you  like." 

She  moved  forward;  he  stood  aside  and  she  left  the 
room.  He  sat  down  on  the  red  sofa  and  stayed  there, 
until  late  into  the  night,  trying  to  puzzle  out  his  posi- 
tion. Sometimes,  in  his  distress,  he  spoke  to  himself 
aloud.  -  .      . 

"That's  what  it  is  .  .  .  the  world's  changed.     En-  \ 
tirely  changed.     Women   don't  want  men   any  more.    ' 
But  that's  awful!     They  can't  get  on  alone.     'Nancy 
can't  get  on  alone.     She  thinks  she  can,  but  she  can't. 
She  gets  taken  in  by  the  first  silly  boy  that  comes 
along.     I  believe  she  cares  for  Harry  more  than  she 
said.  .  .  .  She  must,  .  .  .  She  wouldn't  have  let  him  ' 
kiss  her.  .  .  ." 


ME.  NIX  195 

And  that  was  the  first  thing  that  he  found  in  the 
voyage  of  mental  discovery  that  he  was  now  making 
— namely,  that  he  couldn't  be  jealous  of  Harry  if  he 
tried.  His  anger  had  left  him.  There  was  nothing 
in  that.  He  knew  it  absolutely,  l^ancy  had  spoken  the 
truth  when  she  had  said  that  she  didn't  care  for  that 
boy  any  more  than  for  a  dog  or  a  baby.  "No,  he  felt 
no  jealousy,  and  now,  oddly  enough,  no  anger. 

But  he  did  not  know  how  he  felt.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  Again  he  saw  the  golden  balls  tossing 
in  the  air  above  him,  and  there  was  she,  alluring,  glit- 
tering, tumbling,  escaping. 

He  thought,  with  a  smile  of  contempt,  of  his  con- 
quest of  Hortons.  That  was  no  achievement.  But  this, 
this  new  woman,  this  new  Xancy,  here  was  something. 

He  slept  that  night  on  the  sofa,  taking  off  his  coat 
and  vso-apping  a  rug  around  him.  He  slept  the  slum- 
ber of  the  dead. 

'Next  day  they  had  only  one  talk  together,  and  that 
a  very  little  one.  Suddenly  after  breakfast  she  turned 
round  upon  him. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  and  then  because  he 
felt  that  she  would  despise  him  for  being  so  indetermi- 
nate, he  went  on,  "It  doesn't  matter  about  Harry.  I 
was  only  angry  for  a  moment  seeing  you  together  like 
that.  I  know  that  you  don't  care  for  him.  It  was 
what  you  said  afterwards — about  not  caring  for  me 
any  more.     Did  you  mean  that?" 

"Why  no,"  she  answered,  "I  never  said  that.  Of 
course  I  care  for  you.     How  could  it  be  otherwise 


196         THE  THIRTEEl^  TRAYELLEES 

after  all  these  years  ?  But  I  don't  want  to  give  up  my 
whole  life  to  you  any  more.  I  don't  love  you.  I 
haven't  loved  you  for  years.  I  think  Lance  took  all 
the  love  I  had  after  he  was  bora.  And  so  I  don't 
want  to  be  always  with  you.  Why  should  I  be  ?  Men 
when  they  are  friends  aren't  always  together.  I  want 
to  be  free,  to  do  some  of  the  things  independent  women 
are  doing.  There  are  so  many  things  women  can  do 
now.  I  see  no  reason  for  our  staying  always  together. 
I  don't  want  to  stay  with  anyone  always." 

''Then  you  don't  love  me  any  more?" 

"JSTo,  of  course  I  don't — and  you  don't  love  me. 
You  know  that.  For  ever  so  long  now  you  haven't 
felt  anything  about  me  at  all.  You've  pretended  to 
because  you  thought  it  was  right,  but  I've  been  a 
shadow  to  you." 

She  was  so  right  that  he  could  only  stare  dumbly  at 
her  wisdom. 

"You're  not  a  shadow  any  longer,"  he  said. 

She  laughed. 

"That's  only  because  we've  just  had  a  scene.  I  shall 
be  a  shadow  again  in  a  day  or  two." 

They  waited.  At  last  he  said,  "Well,  you  won't 
go  at  once,  will  you  ?  Please,  promise  me  that.  Stay 
until  we've  straightened  everything  out.  Promise 
me." 

She  shook  her  head. 

'^1^0,  I'll  promise  nothing  any  more.  I  should  only 
break  my  promises.  But  I'll  tell  you  before  I'm  go- 
mg." 

There    began    then    for    him    the    strangest    time. 


MR.  OTX  197 

Slowly  an  entirely  new  woman  stole  into  his  life,  a 
woman  whom  he  did  not  know  at  all,  a  creation  as 
strange  and  novel  as  though  he  had  but  now  met  her 
for  the  first  time.  Every  evening,  when  he  returned 
to  the  flat,  it  was  with  the  expectation  of  finding  her 
gone.  .'Ho  questioned  her  about  nothing.  She  con- 
tinued as  she  had  done  before  to  look  after  the  flat 
and  his  clothes  and  his  food.  lie  did  not  touch  her; 
he  did  not  kiss  her.  They  sat  in  the  evening  in  their 
little  sitting-room  reading.  They  discussed  the  events 
of  the  day. 

Soon  he  realised  that  it  was  beginning  to  be  a  pas- 
sionate determination  with  him  that  he  must  keep  her. 
He  did  not  know  how  to  set  about  it.  He  found  that 
he  was  beginning  to  woo  her  again,  to  woo  her  as  he 
had  never  wooed  anybody  before.  He  did  not  let  her 
see  it.  He  fancied  that  he  was  the  last  word  in  tact. 
One  evening  he  brought  her  some  roses.  He  tried  to 
speak  casually  about  it.  His  voice  trembled.  One 
night  he  kissed  her,  but  very  indifferently  as  though 
he  were  thinking  of  other  things. 

And  how  mysterious  she  was  becoming  to  him ! 
"Not  in  the  old  way.  He  could  not  believe  tliat  there 
had  ever  been  a  time  when  he  had  known  her  so  well 
that  he  could  not  see  her.  He  saw  her  continually 
now,  through  all  his  work,  through  every  moment  of 
the  day.  His  heart  beat  when  he  thought  of  her. 
He  would  wait  for  a  moment  outside  the  door  in  the 
evening,  his  hands  trembling  with  the  thought  that  he 
might  look  inside  and  find  her  gone. 

He  never  questioned  her  now  as  to  where  she  went, 


198         THE  THIKTEE:N'  TEAVELLERS 

but  lie  was  forced  to  admit  that  she  did  not  go  out 
any  more  than  she  had  done  in  the  old  days.  It  was 
strange  when  you  came  to  think  of  it,  that  she  had 
not  followed  up  more  completely  her  fine  declaration 
of  independence. 

They  went  one  evening  to  a  theatre,  together.  They 
sat  close  to  one  another  in  the  dark,  and  he  longed  to 
take  her  hand,  but  did  not  dare.  He  felt  like  a  boy 
again,  and  she  was  surely  young  too — younger  than  he 
had  ever  known  her. 

There  were  times  when  he  fancied  that  after  all  she 
was  quite  contented  with  her  domesticity.  But  he 
did  not  dare  to  believe  that.  If  he  once  caught  the 
golden  ball  and  held  it,  what  would  happen? 

There  came  at  last  an  evening  when  imprudence 
overcame  him.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her — kissed  her  as  he  had  not  done  for  years.  The 
first  wonderful  thing  that  he  knew  was  that  she  re- 
sponded, responded  with  all  the  passion  of  their  first 
days  of  courtship. 

He  heard  her  murmur: 

''Poor  old  Sam — ^you  poor,  blind,  silly  old  Sam." 

A  moment  later  she  was  out  of  his  arms  and  across 
the  floor. 

''But  don't  imagine,"  she  cried,  "that  I'm  sure  that 
I'm  going  to  stay.  I  may  be  off  at  any  minute.  This 
very  night  pei-haps!" 

He  was  alone  staring  at  the  closed  door.  The 
golden  balls  were  still  dancing.  He  wanted  to  follow 
her.  He  got  up.  He  stopped.  He  had  a  moment 
of  intense  disappointment. 


MR.  mX  199 

Then — "By  Jove,  I  believe  I'm  glad.  I  don't  want 
to  be  sure  of  her.  I  hope  I'll  never  be  sure  of  her 
again!" 

And  on  that  flash  of  self-realisation  he  began  his 
new  life. 


\ 


LIZZIE  RAND 

LIZZIE  RAOTD  was  just  forty-six  years  of  age 
when  old  Mrs.  Rougliton  McKenzie  died  leaving 
her  all  her  money.  Months  later  she  had  not  thor- 
oughly realised  what  had  happened  to  her. 

Until  that  day  of  Mrs.  McKenzie's  death  she  had 
never  had  any  money.     She  had  spent  her  life,  her  en- 
ergies, her  pluck  and  her  humour  in  the  service  of 
one  human  heing  after  another,  and  generally  in  the 
service  of  women.     It  seemed  to  her  to  be  really  funny  ^ 
that  the  one  who  had  during  her  life  begnidged  her  i 
most  should  in  the  end  he  the  one  who  had  given  her  J 
everything;  hut  no  one  had  ever  understood  old  Mrs. 
McKenzie,  and  as  likely  as  not  she  had  left  her  money 
to  Lizzie  Hand  just  to  spite  her  numerous  relations. 
Lizzie  had  expected  nothing.     She  never  did  expect  I 
anything,  which  was  as  well  perhaps,  because  no  one  / 
ever   gave  her  anything.     She  was   not   a   person   to 
whom  one  naturally  gave  things ;  she  had  a  pride,  a  re- 
serve,   an   assertion   of  her   own   private   liberty   that 
kept  people  away   and   forbade  intimacy.     That  had 
not  always  been  so.     In  the  long  ago  days  when  she 
had  been  Adela  Beaminster's  secretary  she  had  given 
herself.      She  had  loved  a  man  who  had  not  loved  her, 

and  out  of  the  shock  of  that  she  had  won  a  friendship 

200 


LIZZIE  EAND  201 

witli  another  woman,  wliicli  was  still  perhaps  the  most 
precious  thing  that  she  had.  But  that  same  shock 
had  been  enough  for  her.  She  guarded,  with  an  al- 
most bitter  ferocity,  the  purity  and  liberty  of  her  soul. 

All  the  women  whose  secretaries  she  had  afterwards 
been  ha'd  felt  this  in  her,  and  most  of  them  had  resented 
it.  Old  Mrs.  McKenzie  had  resented  it  more  than 
any  of  them.  She  was  a  selfish,  painted,  over-deco- 
rated old  creature,  a  widow  with  no  children  and  only 
nephews  and  nieces  to  sigh  after  her  wealth.  One  of 
Lizzie's  chief  duties  had  been  to  keep  these  nephews 
and  nieces  from  the  door,  and  this  she  had  done  with 
a  certain  grim  austerity,  finding  that  none  of  them 
cared  for  the  aunt  and  all  for  the  money.  The  out- 
raged relations  decided,  of  course,  at  once  that  she 
was  a  plotting,  despicable  creature;  it  is  doing  her  less 
than  justice  to  say  that  the  idea  that  the  money  would 
be  left  to  her  never  for  a  single  instant  entered  her 
head.  Mrs.  McKenzie  taunted  her  once  for  ex- 
pecting it. 

"Of  course  you're  waiting,"  she  said,  "like  all  of 
them,  to  pick  the  bones  of  the  corpse." 

Lizzie  Rand  laughed. 

"!N"ow  is  that  like  me?"  she  asked.  "And,  more 
important,  is  it  like  you?" 

Mrs.  McKenzie  sniggered  her  tinkling,  wheezy 
snigger.  There  was  a  certain  honesty  between  them. 
They  had  certain  things  in  common. 

"I  don't  like  you,"  she  said.  "I  don't  see  how  any- 
one could.  You're  too  self-sufiicient — but  you  cer- 
tainly have  a  sense  of  humour." 


202         THE  THIRTEE]^  TEAVELLERS 

There  had  been  a  time  once  when  many  people  liked 
Lizzie,  and  she  reflected  now,  with  a  little  shudder, 
that  perhaps  only  one  person  in  the  world,  Rachel 
Seddon,  the  woman  friend  before-mentioned,  liked  and 
understood  her.  "Why  had  she  shut  herself  off  ?  Why 
presented  so  stiff,  so  immaculate,  so  cold  a  personality 
to  the  world?  She  was  not  stiff,  not  cold,  not  im- 
maculate. It  was,  perhaps,  simply  that  she  felt  that 
it  was  in  that  way  only  that  she  could  get  her  work 
done,  and  to  do  her  work  thoroughly  seemed  to  her 
now  to  be  the  job  best  worth  while  in  life. 

During  the  wax  she  had  almost  broken  from  her 
secretaryship  and  gone  forth  to  do  Red  Cross  work  or 
anything  that  would  help.  A  kind  of  timidity  that 
had  grown  upon  her  with  the  years,  a  sense  of  her 
age  and  of  her  loneliness,  held  her  back.  Twenty 
years  ago  she  would  have  gone  with  the  first.  JSTow 
she  stayed  with  Mrs.  McKenzie. 

Mrs.  McKenzie  died  on  the  day  of  the  Armistice, 
!N'ovember  11,  1918.  Hler  illness  had  not  been  severe. 
Lizzie  had  had,  at  the  most,  only  a  week's  nursing; 
it  had  been  obvious  from  the  first  that  nothing  could 
save  the  old  lady.  Mrs.  McKenzie  had  not  looked 
as  though  she  were  especially  anxious  that  anything 
should  save  her.  She  had  lain  there  in  scornful 
silence,  asking  for  nothing,  complaining  of  nothing, 
despising  everything.  Lizzie  admitted  that  the  old 
woman  died  game. 

There  had  followed  then  that  hard,  bewildering  pe- 
riod that  Lizzie  knew  by  now  so  well  where  she  must 
pull  herself,  so  reluctantly,  so  heavily  towards  the  busi- 


LIZZIE  KAND  203 

ness  of  finding  a  new  engagement.  She  did  not,  of 
course,  expect  Mrs.  McKenzie  to  leave  her  a  single 
penny.  She  stayed  for  a  week  or  two  with  her  friend 
Hachel  Seddon.  But  Eachel,  a  widow  with  an  only 
son,  was  so  tumultuously  glad  at  the  return  of  her 
boy,  safe  and  whole,  from  the  war,  that  it  was  difficult 
for  her  just  then  to  take  any  other  human  being  into 
her  heart.  She  loved  Lizzie,  and  would  do  anything 
in  the  world  for  her;  she  was  indeed  for  ever  urg-ing 
her  to  give  up  these  sterile  companionships  and  sec- 
retaryships and  come  and  make  her  home  with 
her.  But  Lizzie,  this  time,  felt  her  isolation  as  she 
had  never  done  before. 

"I'm  getting  old,"  she  thought.  "And  I'm  drifting 
off  .  .  .  soon  I  shall  be  utterly  alone."  The  thought 
sent  little  shivering  ghosts  climbing  about  her  body. 
She  saw  in  the  gay,  happy,  careless,  kindly  eyes  of 
young  Tom  Seddon  how  old  she  was  to  the  new 
generation. 

He  called  her  "Aunt  Liz,"  took  her  to  the  theatre, 
and  was  an  angel  .  .  .  nevertheless  an  angel  happily, 
almost  boastfully,  secure  in  another,  warmer  planet 
than  hers. 

Then  came  the  shock.  Mrs.  McKenzie  had  left  her 
everything — the  equivalent  of  about  eight  thousand 
pounds  a  year. 

At  first  her  sense  was  one  of  an  urgent  need  of  rest. 
She  sank  back  amongst  the  cushions  and  pillows  of 
Eachel's  house  and  refused  to  think  .  .  .  refused  to 
think  at  all.  .  .  .  She  considered  for  a  moment  the 


204        THE  THIETEEN  TRAVELLERS 

infuriated  faces  of  the  McKenzie  relations.  Then 
thej,  too,  passed  from  her  consciousness. 

When  she  faced  the  world  again,  she  faced  it  with 
the  old  common  sense  that  had  always  been  her  most 
prominent  characteristic.  She  had  eight  thousand  a 
year.  Well,  she  would  do  the  very  best  with  it  that 
she  could.  Rachel,  w-ho  had  appeared  to  be  more  deeply 
excited  than  she  over  the  event,  had  various  suggestions 
to  offer,  but  Lizzie  had  her  o\vn  ideas.  She  could  not 
remember  the  time  when  she  had  not  planned  what  she 
would  do  w'hen  somebody  left  her  money. 

She  took  one  of  the  most  charming  flats  in  Hortons, 
bought  beautiful  things  for  it,  etchings  by  D.  T.  Cam"- 
eron,  one  Nevinson,  and  a  John  drawing,  some  Jap- 
anese prints ;  she  had  books  and  soft  carpets  and  flowers 
and  a  piano;  and  had  the  prettiest  spare  room  for  a 
friend.  Then  she  stopped  and  looked  about  her.  There 
were  certain  charities  in  which  she  had  been  always 
deeply  interested,  especially  one  for  Poor  Gentlewomen. 
There  was  a  home,  too,  for  illegitimate  babies.  She 
remembered,  with  a  happy  irony,  the  occasion  when  she 
had  tried  to  persuade  Mrs.  McKenzie  to  give  some- 
thing to  these  charities  and  had  failed.  .  .  .  Well,  Mrs. 
McKenzie  was  giving  now  all  right.  Lizzie  hoped  that 
she  knew  it. 

There  accumulated  around  her  all  the  business  that 
clusters  about  an  independent  woman  with  means.  She 
was  on  committees;  many  people  who  would  not  have 
looked  twice  at  her  before  liked  her  now  and  asked 
her  to  their  houses. 

Again  she  stopped  and  looked  about  her. 


LIZZIE  KAND  205 

Still  there  was  somethinc^  that  she  needed.  What 
was  it  ?  Companionship  'i  More  than  that.  Affection, 
a  centre  to  her  life ;  someone  who  needed  her,  someone 
to  whom  she  was  of  more  importance  than  anyone  else 
in  the  world.     Even  a  dog.  .  .  . 

Shevwas  foi-ty-six.  Without  being  plain  she  was  too 
slight,  too  hard-drawn,  too  masculine,  above  all  too  old 
to  be  attractive  to  men.  An  old  maid  of  forty-six. 
She  faced  the  truth.  She  gave  little  dinner-parties, 
and  felt  more  lonely  than  ever.  Even  it  seemed  there 
was  nobody  who  wanted  to  make  her  a  confidante.  Peo- 
ple wanted  her  money,  but  herself  not  at  all.  She  was 
not  good  conversationally.  She  said  sharp  sarcastic 
things  that  frightened  people.  People  did  not  want  the 
truth;  they  wanted  things  to  be  wrapped  up  first,  a3 
her  mother  and  sister  had  wanted  them  years  ago. 

She  was  a  failure  socially,  in  spite  of  her  money. 
She  could  not  be  genial,  and  yet  her  heart  ached  for  love. 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Edmund  Lapsley  appeared. 
Lizzie  met  him  at  a  party  given  by  Mrs.  Philip  Mark 
in  Bryanston  Square.  Mrs.  Mark  was  an  old  friend  of 
Rachel's,  a  kindly  and  clever  woman  with  an  ambitious 
husband  who  would  never  get  very  far. 

Her  parties  were  always  formed  by  a  strange  mixture 
dictated  first  by  her  kind  heart  and  second  her  desire 
to  have  people  in  her  house  who  might  possibly  help  her 
husband.  Edmund  Lapsley  originated  in  the  former  of 
these  impulses.  He  was  not  much  to  look  at — long, 
lanky,  with  a  high  bony  head,  a  prominent  Roman 
nose  and  large,  cracking  fing-ers.  He  was  shabbily 
dressed,    awkward   in  his  manner,    and   apprehensive. 


206        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

It  was  his  eyes  that  first  attracted  Lizzie's  attention. 
They  were  beautiful  large  brown  eyes,  with  the  expres- 
sion of  a  lost  and  lonely  dog  seated  deep  in  their  pupils. 
He  sat  with  Lizzie  in  a  corner  of  the  crowded  drawing- 
room  to  arrange  his  long  legs  so  that  they  should  not  be 
in  the  way,  cracked  his  long  fingers  together  and  endeav- 
oured to  be  interested  in  the  people  whom  Lizzie  pointed 
out  to  him. 

"That's  Henry  Trenchard,"  Lizzie  said,  "that  wild- 
looking  boy  with  the  untidy  hair.  .  .  .  He's  very  clever. 
Going  to  be  our  gTeat  novelist.  .  .  .  That's  his  sister, 
Millie.  Mrs.  Mark's  sister,  too.  Isn't  she  pretty? 
She's  the  loveliest  of  the  family.  That  stout  clergy- 
naan  is  a  Trenchard  cousin.  They  all  hang  together 
in  the  most  wonderful  way,  you  know.  His  wife  ran 
away  and  never  came  back  again.  I  don't  think  I  won- 
der; he  looks  heavy.  .  .  ."     And  so  on. 

Lizzie  wondered  to  herself  why  she  bothered.  It  was 
not  her  habit  to  gossip,  and  Mr.  Lapsley  was  obviously 
not  at  all  interested. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said ;  "you  don't  want  to 
know  who  these  people  are." 

"No,"  he  said  in  a  strange,  sudden,  desperate  whis- 
per. "I  don't.  I  lost  my  wife  only  three  months  ago. 
I'm  trying  to  go  out  into  the  world  again.  I  can't.  It 
doesn't  do  any  good."  He  gripped  his  knee  with  one  of 
his  large  bony  hands. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  Lizzie  said.  "I  didn't  know.  How 
tiresome  of  me  to  have  gone  on  chattering  like  that! 
You  should  have  stopped  me." 

He  seemed  himself  to  be  sui^prised  at  the  confession 


LIZZIE  RAND  207 

that  lie  had  made.  He  stared  at  her  in  a  bewildered 
fashion  like  an  owl  suddenly  flashed  into  light.  He 
stared,  saying  nothing.  Suddenly  in  the  same  hurried, 
husky  whisper  he  went  on:  ''Do  you  mind  my  talking 
to  you  ?  I  want  to  talk  to  somebody.  I'd  like  to  tell 
you  about  her." 

"Please,"  said  Lizzie,  looking  into  his  eyes,  they  were 
tender  and  beautiful,  so  unlike  his  ugly  body,  and  full 
of  unhappiuess. 

He  talked;  the  words  tumbled  out  in  an  urgent, 
tremulous  confusion. 

They  had  been  married,  it  appeared,  ten  years,  ten 
wonderful  happy  years.  "How  she  can  have  cared  for 
me,  that's  what  I  never  understood,  Miss^ — Miss " 

"Eand,"  said  Lizzie. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Difficult  to  catch  .  .  .  when 
you  are  introduced.  .  .  .  Never  understood.  I  w^as 
years  older  than  she.  I'm  fifty  now — f ort}^  when  I  mar- 
ried her,  and  she  was  only  twent}^  Thirty  when  she 
— when  she  died.  In  childbirth  it  was.  The  child,  a 
boy,  was  bom  dead.  Everyone  prophesied  disaster. 
They  all  told  her  not  to  marry  me,  she  was  so  pretty, 
and  so  young,  and  so  brilliant.  She  sang.  Miss  Rand, 
just  like  a  lark.  She  did,  indeed.  She  was  trained  in 
Paris.  I  oughtn't  to  have  proposed  to  her,  I  suppose. 
That's  what  I  tell  myself  now,  but  I  was  carried  off  my 
feet,  completely  off  my  feet.  I  couldn't  help  myself 
at  all.  I  loved  her  from  the  first  moment  that  I  saw 
her.  You  know  how  those  things  are,  Miss  Rand. 
And,  in  any  case,  I  don't  know.  Ten  perfect  years, 
that's  a  good  deal  for  anyone  to  have,  isn't  it  ?     And  she 


208        THE  THIRTEEN  TEAVELLEES 

■was  as  happy  as  I  was.  It  may  seem  strange  to  you, 
looking  at  me,  but  it  was  really  so.  She  thought  I  was 
so  much  cleverer  than  I  was — and  better  too.  It  used  to 
make  me  very  nervous  sometimes  lest  she  should  find  me 
out,  you  know,  and  leave  me.  I  always  expected  that  to 
happen.  But  she  was  so  charitable  to  everyone.  ISTever 
could  see  the  bad  side  of  people,  and  they  were  always 
better  with  her  than  with  anyone  else.  We'd  always 
hoped  for  a  child,  and  then,  as  the  years  went  on,  we 
gave  it  up.  Edmund,  she  said  to  me,  we  must  make  it 
up  to  one  another.  And  then  she  told  me  it  was  going 
to  be  all  right.  You  wouldn't  have  believed  two  ordi- 
nary people  could  be  so  happy  as  we  were  when 
we  knew  about  it.  We  made  many  plans,  of  course.  I 
was  a  little  apprehensive  that  I'd  be  rather  old  to  bring 
up  a  child,  but  she  was  so  young  that  made  it  all  right 
— so  wonderfully  young.  .  .  ,  Then  she  died.  It  was 
incredible,  of  course.  I  didn't  believe  it  ...  I  don't 
believe  it  now.  She's  not  dead.  That's  absurd.  You'd 
feel  the  same  if  vou'd  seen  her.  Miss  Eand.  So  full 
of  life,  and  then  suddenly  .  .  .  nothing  at  all.  It's 
impossible.  ISTature  isn't  like  that.  Things  gradually 
die,  don't  they,  and  change  into  something  else.  I^ot 
suddenly.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off.  He  was  clutching  his  knees  and 
staring  in  front  of  him.  "I  don't  know  why  I  talk  to 
you  like  this,  Miss  Eand  ...  I  hope  you'll  forgive 
me.     I  shouldn't  have  bothered  you." 

"I'm  pleased  that  you  have,  Mr.  Lapsley."  She  got 
up.  She  felt  that  he  would  be  glad  now  to  escape. 
"Won't  you  come  and  see  me  ?    I  have  a  flat  in  Hortons 


LIZZIE  KAND  209 

Chambers  in  Duke  Street,  No.  42.  .  .  .  Do  come.    Just 
telephone." 

He  looked  up  at  her,  not  rising  from  his  seat.  Then 
he  got  up. 

"I  will,"  he  said.     "Thank  you." 

He  was  still  stai-ing  at  her,  and  she  knew  that  he  had 
something  further  to  say.  She  could  see  it  struggling 
in  his  eyes.  But  she  did  not  want  him  to  confess  any 
more.  He  would  be  the  kind  of  man  to  regret  after- 
wards what  he  had  done.  She  would  not  burden  his 
conscience.  And  yet  she  had  the  knowledge  that  it  was 
something  very  serious  that  he  wanted  to  tell  her,  some- 
thing that  had  been,  in  reality,  at  the  back  of  all  his 
earlier  confession. 

She  refused  the  appeal  in  his  eyes,  said  good-night, 
took  his  hand  for  a  moment  and  turned  away. 

Afterwards  she  was  talking  to  Katherine  Mark. 

"I  see  you  were  kind  to  poor  Mr.  Lapsley,"  Katherine 
said. 

"How  sad  about  his  wife !"     Lizzie  answered. 

"Yes.  And  she  really  was  young  and  beautiful.  N"o 
one  understood  why  she  married  him,  but  I've  never  seen 
anything  more  successful.  ...  I  didn't  think  he'd 
come  to-night,  but  I'm  fond  of  him.  Philip  doesn't 
care  for  him  much,  but  he  reminds  me  of  a  cousin  of 
ours,  John  Trenchard,  who  was  killed  in  Russia  in  the 
second  year  of  the  war.  But  John  was  unhappier  than. 
Mr.  Lapsley.     He  never  had  his  perfect  years." 

"Yes,  that's  something,"  Lizzie  acknowledged. 

It  was  strange  to  her  afterwards  that  Edmund  Lap- 
sley should  persist  so  vividly  in  her  mind.     She  saw 


210        THE  THIRTEEIN"  TRAVELLEES 

liim  with  absolute  clarity  almost  as  thoiigli  he  were  with 
her  in  her  flat.  She  thought  of  him  a  good  deal.  He 
needed  someone  to  comfort  him,  and  she  needed  someone 
to  comfort.     She  hoped  he  would  come  and  see  her. 

He  did  come,  one  afternoon,  quite  unexpectedly  and 
without  telephoning  first.  Fortunately  she  was  there, 
alone,  and  wanting  someone  to  talk  to.  At  first  he  was 
shy  and  self-conscious.  They  talked  stiffly  about  Lon- 
don, and  the  weather,  and  the  approaching  Peace,  and 
whether  there  would  ever  be  a  League  of  Nations,  and 
how  high  prices  were,  and  how  impossible  it  was  to  get 
servants  and  when  they  got  them  they  went.  .  .  .  Lizzie 
broke  ruthlessly  in  upon  this.  "It  isn't  the  least  little 
good,  Mr.  Lapsley,"  she  said,  "our  talking  like  this. 
It's  mere  waste  of  time.  We  both  know  plenty  of  peo- 
ple to  whom  we  can  chatter  this  nonsense.  Either  we 
are  friends,  or  we  are  not.  If  we  are  friends,  we  must 
go  a  little  further.     Are  we  friends  ?" 

He  seemed  to  be  at  a  loss.     He  blinked  at  her. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Well,  then,"  she  looked  at  him  and  smiled.  "I  don't 
want  to  force  your  confidence,  but  there  was  something 
that  you  were  anxious  to  tell  me  about  the  other  night, 
some  way  in  which  I  could  help  you.  I  stopped  you 
then,  but  I  don't  want  to  stop  you  now.  I'll  be  hon- 
oured indeed  if  there's  anything  I  can  do." 

He  gTilped,  stammered,  then  out  it  came.  At  the  first 
hint  of  his  trouble  it  was  all  that  Lizzie  could  do  to 
repress  an  impatient  gesture.  His  trouble  was — spirit- 
ualism. 

Of  all  the  tiresome  things,  of  all  the  things  about 


LIZZIE  RAND  211 

which  she  had  no  patience  at  all,  of  all  the  idiotic, 
money-wasting  imbecilities !  He  poured  it  all  out.  He 
had  read  books,  at  last  a  friend  had  taken  him  ...  A 
Dr.  Orloff,  a  very  wonderful  medium,  a  very  trust- 
worthy man,  a  man  about  whom  there  could  be  no 
question. 

On  the  first  occasion  the  results  had  been  poor — on 
the  second  occasion  his  Margaret  had  spoken  to  him, 
actually  spoken  to  him.  Oh !  but  there  could  be  no 
doubt !  Her  very  voice.  .  .  .  His  own  voice  shook  as 
he  spoke  of  it. 

Since  then  he  had  been,  he  was  forced  to  admit,  a 
number  of  times — almost  every  day  .  .  .  every  day 
.  .  .  every  afternoon.  He  talked  to  Margaret  every 
day  now  for  half  an  hour  or  more. 

Hb  was  sure  it  was  right,  he  was  doing  nobody  any 
iiarm  .  .  .  they  two  together  ...  it  could  not  be 
wrong,  but  .  .  .  He  stopped.  Lizzie. gave  him  no  help. 
She  sat  there  looking  in  front  of  her.  She  despised 
him ;  she  was  conscious  of  a  deep  and  bitter  disappoint- 
ment. She  did  not  know  how  he  could  betray  his 
weakness,  his  softness,  his  gullibility.  She  had  thought 
him  .  .  .  She  looked  up  suddenly,  knowing  that  his 
voice  had  stopped.  He  was  gazing  at  her  in  despair, 
his  eyes  wide  with  an  unhappiness  that  struck  deep  to 
his  heart. 

"You  despise  me !"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "I  do."  But  she  was  aware 
at  the  same  time  that  she  could  have  gone  across  to  him 
and  put  her  hand  on  his  head  and  comforted  him. 
"That's  all  false !     You  know  it  is.     You're  only  delud- 


212         THE  THIETEEX  TEAYELLERS 

ing  jourself  because  jou  want  to  persuade  yourself — it's 
weak  of  you.     Your  wife  can't  come  to  vou  that  wav.'' 

"Don't  take  it  from  me !"  His  voice  was  an  ag-on- 
ised  cry,  "It's  all  I  have.  It's  true.  It's  true.  It 
must  be  true!" 

They  were  suddenly  in  contact  .  .  .  she  felt  a  warm 
sense  of  protection  and  pity,  a  longing  to  comfort  and 
help  so  strong  that  she  instinctively  put  her  hand  to  her 
heart  as  though  she  would  restrain  it. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean,"  she  cried,  "that  I'd  take  any- 
thing away  from  you.  !N^o,  no — never  that.  If  you 
thought  that  I  meant  that,  you're  wrong.  Keep  any- 
thing you've  got.  Perhaps  I'm  mistaken.  The  me- 
diums I've  known  have  been  charlatans.  That's  prej- 
udiced me.  Then  I  don't  think  I  want  my  friends  to 
come  back  to  me  in  quite  that  way.  ...  If  it's  true, 
it  seems  to  be  forcing  them,  against  their  will,  as  it 
were.  Oh !  I  know  a  great  many  people  now  are  find- 
ing it  all  true  and  good.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
it.  I  shouldn't  have  said  what  I  did.  And  then  vou 
see  I've  never  lost  anyone  whom  I  loved  very  much." 

"ISTever?"  Mr.  Lapsley  asked,  staring  at  her  with 
wide-open  eyes. 

"No,  never,  I  think." 

He  got  up  and  came  across  to  her,  standing  near  t-o 
her,  looking  down  upon  her.  She  saw  that  she  had 
aroused  his  interest,  that  she  had  suddenly  switched  his 
attention  upon  herself. 

She  had  aroused  him  in  the  only  way  that  he  could 
be  aroused,  by  stirring  his  pity  for  her.  She  knew 
exactly  how  suddenly  he  saw  her — as  a  lonely,  unhappy, 


LIZZIE  KAND  213 

deserted  old  maid.  She  did  not  mind ;  that  the  atten- 
tion of  any  one  single  human  being  should  be  centred 
upon  her  for  herself  was  a  very  wonderful,  touching 
thing. 

Silence  fell  between  them ;  the  pretty  room,  gi-ey  and 
silver  in  the  half-light,  gathered  intimately  around  them. 
When  at  last  he  went  away  it  seemed  that  the  last  ten 
minutes  had  added  years  to  their  knowledge  of  one 
another. 

A  strange  time  for  Lizzie  followed.  Edmund  Laps- 
ley  had  rushed  into  her  life  with  a  precipitate  urgency 
that  showed  how  empty  before  it  had  been.  But  there 
was  more  than  their  mere  contact  in  the  affair.  She 
was  fighting  a  battle;  all  her  energies  were  in  it;  she 
was  ruthless,  savage,  tooth-and-nail ;  he  should  be 
snatched  from  this  spiritualism. 

It  was  a  silent  battle.  He  never  spoke  to  her  again 
of  it.  He  did  not  say  whether  he  went  or  not,  and  she 
did  not  ask  him.  But  soon  they  were  meeting  almost 
every  day,  and  she  felt  with  a  strange,  almost  savage 
pleasure  that  her  influence  over  him  gi-ew  with  every 
meeting.  She  discovered  many  things  about  his  charac- 
ter. He  was  weak,  undecided,  almost  subservient,  a  man 
whom  she  would  have  despised  perhaps  had  it  not  been 
for  the  real  sweetness  that  lay  at  the  roots  of  him.  She 
very  quickly  understood  how  this  girl,  Margaret,  al- 
though so  young  and  so  ignorant  of  the  world,  must 
have  dominated  him.  "Any  woman  could !"  she 
thought  almost  angrily  to  herself,  and  yet  there  was  a 
kind  of  pride  behind  her  anger. 

She  would  not  confess  to  herself  that  what  she  was 


214        THE  THIRTEEN  TEAVELLERS 

really  fighting  was  the  memory  of  the  dead  girl,  or,  if 
she  confessed  at  all,  it  was  to  console  herself  with  the 
thought  that  it  was  right  for  him  now  to  "cheer  np  a 
little." 

Cheer  up  he  did ;  it  was  curious  to  watch  the  rapidity 
with  which  he  responded  to  Lizzie's  energy  and  humour 
and  vitality. 

At  last  she  challenged  him: 

"Well,  what  about  Dr.  Orloff  ?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  startled  glance,  then 
almost  under  his  breath  he  said :  "I  don't  go  any  more;  I 
thought  you  didn't  want  me  to." 

So  sudden  a  confession  of  her  power  took  her  breath 
away.     She  asked  her  next  question. 

"But  Margaret?"  she  said.  He  answered  that  as 
though  he  were  arguing  some  long-debated  question  with 
himself : 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied  slowly.  "You  were  right. 
That  wasn't  the  proper  way  to  bring  her  back,  even 
though  it  were  genuine.  I  must  tell  you,  Miss  Rand," 
he  said  suddenly  flinging  up  his  head  and  looking  across 
at  her,  "you've  shown  me  so  many  things  since  we  first 
met.  I  was  getting  into  a  very  bad  way,  indulging 
myself  in  my  grief,  Margaret  wouldn't  have  liked  that 
either,  but  it  wasn't  until  I  knew  you  that  I  saw  what 
I  was  doing.     Thank  you." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't!"  She  shook  her  head.  "You 
mustn't  take  me  for  Gospel  like  that  Mr.  Lapsley.  You 
make  me  frightened  for  my  responsibility.  We  are 
friends,  and  we  must  help  one  another,  but  we  must  keep 
our  independence." 


LIZZIE  RAND  215 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling. 

"There's  always  been  somebody  who's  taken  my  inde- 
pendence away,"  he  said.     "And  I  like  it." 

After  he  had  gone  she  had  the  tussle  of  her  life.  She 
ate  dinner  alone,  then  sat  far  into  the  night  fighting. 
Why  should  she  fight  at  all  ?  Here  was  the  charge  given 
straight  into  her  hand,  the  gift  for  which  she  had  longed 
and  longed,  the  very  man  for  her,  the  man  whom  she 
could  care  for  as  she  would  her  child.  Care  for  and 
protect  and  guide  and  govern.  Govern !  Like  a  torch 
flaring  between  dark  walls  that  word  lit  her  soul  for  / 
her.  Govern !  That  was  what  she  wanted ;  all  her 
life  she  had  wanted  it. 

She  wanted  to  feel  her  power,  to  dominate,  to  com- 
mand. And  all  for  his  good.  She  loved  him,  she 
loved  his  sweetness  and  his  goodness  and  his  simplicity. 
She  could  make  him  happy  and  contented  and  at  ease 
for  the  rest  of  his  days.  He  should  never  have  another 
anxiety,  never  another  responsibility.  Why  fight  then  ? 
Wasn't  it  obviously  the  best  thing  in  the  world,  both  for 
him  and  for  her?  She  needed  him.  He  her.  She 
abandoned  herself  then  to  happy,  tender  thoughts  of 
their  life  together.  What  it  would  be!  What  they 
could  do  with  old  Mrs.  McKenzie's  money!  She  sat 
there  trying  to  lose  herself  in  that  golden  future.  She 
could  not  quite  lose  herself.  Threading  it  was  again 
and  again  the  warning  that  something  was  not  right 
with  it,  that  she  was  pursuing  some  course  that  she 
should  not.  The  clock  struck  half-past  eleven.  She 
gave  a  little  shiver.     The  room  was  cold.     She  knew 


216         THE  THIETEE:^r  TRAVELLERS 

then,  with  that  little  shiver,  of  what  she  had  been  think- 
ing.    Margaret  Lapslej.  .  .  . 

Why  should  she  be  thinking  of  her  ?  She  was  dead. 
She  could  not  complain.  And  if  she  were  still  con- 
sciously with  them,  surely  she  would  rather  that  he 
should  be  cared  for  and  loved  and  guarded  than  pursue 
a  lonely  life  full  of  regrets  and  melancholy.  What 
kind  of  girl  had  she  been?  Had  she  loved  him  as  he 
had  loved  her?  How  young  she  had  died!  How 
young  and  fresh  and  happy!  .  .  .  Lizzie  shivered 
again.  Ali!  She  was  old.  Fiftv  and  old — old  in 
thoughts  and  hopes  and  di'earas.  Pervaded  by  a  damp 
mist  of  unhappiness,  she  went  to  bed  and  lay  there,  look- 
ing into  the  dark. 

With  the  morning  her  scruples  had  vanished.  She 
saw  Margaret  Lapsley  no  more.  She  was  her  own  sane, 
matter-of-fact  mistress.  A  delightful  fortnight  fol- 
lowed. All  her  life  afterwards  Lizzie  looked  back  to 
those  fourteen  days  as  the  happiest  of  her  time.  They 
were  together  now  every  afternoon.  Very  often  in  the 
evening  too  they  went  to  the  theatre  or  music.  He  was 
her  faithful  dog.  He  agreed  with  all  her  suggestions, 
eagerly,  implicitly.  Mentally,  he  was  not  stupid;  he 
knew  many  things  that  she  did  not,  and  he  was  not  so 
submissive  that  he  would  not  argue.  He  argued  hotly, 
growing  excited,  calling  out  protests  in  a  high  treble, 
then  suddenly  laughing  like  a  child.  For  those  days 
she  abandoned  herself  utterly.  She  allowed  herself  to 
be  surrounded,  to  be  hemmed  in,  by  the  companion- 
ship, the  care,  the  affection.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  wonder- 
ful for  her !    Only  those  who  had  known  her  years  and 


LIZZIE  RAND  217 

years  of  loneliness  could  appreciate  what  it  was  to  her 
now  to  have  this.  She  warmed  her  hands  at  the  fire 
of  it  and  let  the  flames  fan  their  heat  upon  her  cheeks. 

Once  she  said  to  him: 

"Isn't  it  strance  that  we  should  have  made  friends 
so  quiclciy?  It  isn't  generally  my  way.  I'm  a  shy 
character,  you  know." 

"So  am  I,"  he  answered  her.  "I  never  would  have 
talked  to  you  as  I  have  if  you  hadn't  helped  me.  You 
have  helped  me.  Wonderfully,  marvellously.  I  only 
wish  that  Margaret  could  have  known  you.  You 
would  have  helped  her  too." 

He  talked  to  her  now  continually  of  Margaret,  but 
very  happily,  with  gi-eat  contentment. 

"Margaret  would  have  loved  you,"  he  liked  to  say. 
Lizzie  was  not  so  sure. 

Then  suddenly  came  the  afternoon,  for  days  past 
now  inevitable,  when  he  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

They  were  sitting  together  in  the  Horton  flat.  It 
was  a  day  of  intense  heat.  All  the  windows  were 
wide  open,  the  blinds  down,  and  into  the  dim,  gi-ey 
shadowy  air  there  struck  shafts  and  lines  of  heat,  bring- 
ing with  them  a  smell  of  dust  and  pavements.  The 
roses  in  a  large  yellow  bowl  on  the  centre  table  flung 
their  thick  scent  across  the  dusky  mote-threaded  light. 
The  hot  town  lay  below  them  like  a  still  sea  basking 
at  the  foot  of  their  rock. 

"I  want  you  to  marry  me,  Lizzie,"  he  said.  "It 
may  seem  very  soon  after  Margaret's  death,  but  it's 
what  she  would  have  wished,  I  know.  Please,  please 
don't  refuse  me.    I  don't  know  how  I  have  the  imperti- 


218        THE  THIRTEEN"  TEAVELLEES 

nence  to  ask,  but  I  must.     I  can't  help  myself " 

At  his  words  the  happiness  that  had  filled  her  heart 
during  the  last  fortnight  suddenly  left  her,  as  water 
ebbs  out  of  a  pool.  She  felt  guilty,  wicked,  ashamed. 
She  had  never  before  been  so  aware  of  his  helplessness 
and  also  of  some  strange,  reproaching  voice  that  blamed 
her.  Why  should  she  be  blamed  ?  She  looked  at  him 
and  longed  to  take  his  head  in  her  hands  and  kiss 
him  and  keep  him  beside  her  and  never  let  him  go 
again. 

At  last  she  told  him  that  she  would  give  him  her 
answer  the  next  day. 

When  at  last  he  left  her,  she  was  miserable,  weighted 
with  a  sense  of  some  horrible  crime.  And  yet  why? 
What  was  there  against  such  a  marriage  ?  She  was 
pursued  that  evening,  that  night.  Next  day  she  would 
not  see  him,  but  sent  down  word  that  she  was  un- 
well and  would  he  come  to-morrow?  All  that  day, 
keeping  alone  in  her  flat,  feeling  the  waves  of  heat  beat 
about  her,  tired,  exhausted,  driven,  the  whole  of  her 
life  stole  past  her. 

"Why  should  I  not  marry  him?  Why  must  I  not 
marry  him  ?" 

The  consciousness  that  she  was  fighting  somebody  or 
something  grew  with  her  through  the  day.  Towards 
evening,  when  the  heat  faded  and  dusk  swallowed  the 
colours  and  patterns  of  her  room,  she  seemed  to  hear 
a  voice :  "You  are  not  the  wife  for  him.  He  will  have 
no  freedom.  He  will  lose  his  character.  He  will  be- 
come a  shadow." 

And  her  answer  was  almost  spoken  to  the  still  and 


LIZZIE  EAND  219 

empty  room.  "But  he  will  be  happy.  I  will  give  him 
everything.  Why  may  I  not  think  of  myself  at  last 
after  all  these  years?  I've  waited  and  waited,  and 
worked  and  worked.  ..." 

And  the  answer  came  back:  "You're  old.  You're 
old.  You're  old."  She  was  old.  She  felt  that  night 
eighty,  a  hundred. 

She  went  to  bed  at  last ;  closed  her  eyes  and  slept. 

She  woke  suddenly;  the  room  swam  in  moonlight. 
She  had  forgotten  to  draw  her  blinds.  The  high,  blue 
expanse  of  heaven  flashing  with  fiery  stars  broke  the 
grey  spaces  of  her  room  with  splendour. 

She  lay  in  bed  watching  the  stars.  She  was  sud- 
denly aware  that  a  figure  stood  there  between  her  bed 
and  the  thin  shadowy^  pane.  She  gazed  at  it  with  no 
fear,  but  rather  as  though  she  had  known  it  before. 

It  was  the  figure  of  a  young  girl  in  a  white  dress. 
Her  hair  was  black,  her  face  very,  very  young,  her 
eyes  deep  and  innocent,  fuU  of  light.  Her  hands  were 
lovely,  thin  and  pale,  shell-coloured  against  the  starry 
sky. 

The  women  looked  at  one  another.  A  little  unspoken 
dialogue  fell  between  them. 

"You  are  Margaret?" 

"Yes." 

"You  have  come  to  tell  me  to  leave  him  alone?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  see  ?  He  won't  be  happy.  He  won't 
grow.  His  soul  won't  grow  with  you.  You  are  not 
the  woman  for  him.     Someone  els© — perhaps — later — 


220        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

but  oil!  let  me  have  him  a  little  longer  just  now.  I 
love  him  so!    Don't  take  him  from  me!" 

Lizzie  smiled. 

"You  beautiful  dear!  .  .  .  How  young  you  are! 
How  lovely!" 

"Leave  him  to  me !     Leave  him  to  me !" 

The  moon  fell  into  fleecy  clouds.  The  room  was 
filled  with  shadow. 

"With  the  morning  nothing  had  been  dimmed.  Lizzie 
was  happy  with  a  strange  sense  of  companionship  and 
comfort. 

When  Edmund  came  she  saw  at  once  that  he  was 
greatly  troubled. 

"Well  ?"  he  asked  her. 

"You've  seen  Margaret!'^  she  cried.  "Last  night!" 
He  nodded  his  head. 

"It  may  have  been  a  dream.  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  want  to  marry  me.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  yes !  Don't  think  I  would  go  back.  .  .  ."  She 
put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"It's  all  right,  Edmund.  I'm  not  going  to  marry 
you.  I'm  too  old.  We're  friends  for  always,  but  noth- 
ing more.    Margaret  was  right." 

"Margaret!"  He  stared  at  her.  "But  you  didn't 
know  her !" 

"I  know  her  now,"  she  answered.  Then,  laughing, 
"I've  got  two  friends  instead  of  one  husband!  Who 
knows  that  I'm  not  the  richer  ?" 

As  she  spoke  she  seemed  to  feci  on  her  cheek  the 
soft,  gentle  kiss  of  a  young  girl. 


XI 

::  NOBODY 

THE  only  one  of  them  all  who  perceived  anything 
like  the  truth  was  young  Claribel. 

Claribel  (how  she  hated  the  absurd  name!)  had  a 
splendid  opportunity  for  observing  everything  in  life, 
simply  because  she  was  so  universally  neglected.  The 
Matchams  and  the  Dorsets  and  the  Duddons  (all  the 
relations,  in  fact)  simply  considered  her  of  no  im- 
portance at  all. 

She  did  not  mind  this:  she  took  it  entirely  for 
granted,  as  she  did  her  plainness,  her  slowness  of  speech, 
her  shj^Tiess  in  company,  her  tendency  to  heat  spots, 
her  bad  figure,  and  all  the  other  things  with  which  an 
undoubtedly  all-wise  God  had  seen  fit  to  endow  her. 
It  was  only  that  having  all  these  things,  Claribel  was 
additionally  an  unfortunate  name;  but  then,  most  of 
them  called  her  Carrie,  and  the  boys  "Fetch  and  Carry" 
often  enough. 

She  was  taken  with  the  others  to  parties  and  teas, 
in  order,  as  she  very  well  knew,  that  critical  friends 
and  neighbors  should  not  say  that  "the  Dorsets  always 
neglected  that  plain  child  of  theirs,  poor  thing." 

She  sat  in  a  corner  and  was  neglected,  but  that  she 

did  not  mind  in  the  least.     She  liked  it.     It  gave  her, 

all  the  more,  the  opportunity  of  watching  people,  the 

221 


222        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

game  that  she  liked  best  in  all  the  world.  She  played 
it  without  any  sense  at  all  that  she  had  unusual  powers. 
It  was  much  later  than  this  that  she  was  to  realise  her 
gifts. 

It  was  this  sitting  in  a  corner  in  the  Horton  flat 
that  enabled  her  to  perceive  what  it  was  that  had  hai>- 
pened  to  her  Cousin  Tom.  Of  course,  she  knew  from 
the  public  standpoint  well  enough  what  had  happened 
to  him — simply  that  he  had  been  wounded  three  times, 
once  in  Gallipoli  and  twice  in  France ;  that  he  had  re- 
ceived the  D.S.O.  and  been  made  a  Major.  But  it  was 
something  other  than  that  that  she  meant.  She  knew 
that  all  the  brothers  and  the  sisters,  the  cousins,  the 
uncles  and  the  aunts  proclaimed  gleefully  that  there  was 
nothing  the  matter  with  him  at  all.  "It's  quite  won- 
derful," they  all  said,  "to  see  the  way  that  dear  Tom 
has  come  back  from  the  war  just  as  he  went  into  it. 
His  same  jolly,  generous  self.  Everyone's  friend.  Not 
at  all  conceited.  How  wonderful  that  is,  when  he's 
done  so  well  and  has  all  that  money!" 

That  was,  Claribel  knew,  the  thing  that  everyone 
said.  Tom  had  always  been  her  own  favourite.  He 
had  not  considered  her  the  least  little  bit  more  than 
he  had  considered  everyone  else.  He  always  was  kind. 
But  he  gave  her  a  smile  and  a  nod  and  a  pat,  and  she 
was  grateful. 

Then  he  had  always  seemed  to  her  a  miraculous  crea- 
ture; his  whole  history  in  the  war  had  only  increased 
that  adoration.  She  loved  to  look  at  him,  and  cer- 
tainly he  m'ust,  in  anyone's  eyes,  have  been  handsome, 
with  his  light,  shining  hair,  his  fine,  open  brow,  Lis 


NOBODY  223 

• 

slim,  straight  body,  his  breeding  and  distinction  and 
nobility. 

To  all  of  this  was  suddenly  added  wealth — his  uncle^ 
the  head  of  the  biggest  biscuit  factory  in  England,  dy- 
ing and  leaving  him  everything.  His  mother  and  he 
had  already  been  suiEciently  provided  for  at  his  father's 
death;  but  he  was  now,  through  Uncle  Bob's  love  for 
him,  an  immensely  rich  man.  This  had  fallen  to  him 
in  the  last  year  of  the  war,  when  he  was  recovering  from 
his  third  wound.  After  the  Armistice,  freed  from  the 
hospital,  he  had  taken  a  delightful  flat  in  Hortons  (his 
mother  preferred  the  country,  and  was  cosy  with  dog's, 
a  parrot,  a  butler,  and  bees  in  Wiltshire),  and  it  was 
here  that  he  gave  his  deiightful  parties.  It  was  here 
that  Claribel,  watching  from  her  corner,  made  her 
great  discovery  about  him. 

Her  discovery  quite  simply  was  that  he  did  not  ex- 
ist; that  he  was  dead,  that  "there  was  nobody  there.'' 

She  did  not  know  what  it  was  that  caused  her  just 
to  be  aware  of  her  ghostly  surprise.  She  had  in  the 
beginning  been  taken  in  as  they  all  had  been.  He  had 
seemed  on  his  first  return  from  the  hospital  to  be  the 
same  old  Tom  whom  they  had  always  known.  For 
some  weeks  he  had  used  a  crutch,  and  his  cheeks  were 
pale,  his  eyes  were  sunk  like  bright  jewels  into  dark 
pouches  of  shadow. 

He  had  said  veiy  little  about  his  experiences  in 
France;  that  was  natural,  none  of  the  men  who  had 
returned  from  there  wished  to  spe^k  of  it  He  had 
thrown  himself  with  apparent  eagerness  into  the  danc- 
ing, the  theatres,  the  house-parties,   the  shooting,  the 


224        THE  THIRTEEI^  TRAVELLEES 

flirting: — all  the  hectic,  eager  life  that  seemed  to  be 
pushed  by  everyone's  hands  into  the  dark,  ominous 
silence  that  the  announcement  of  the  Armistice  had 
created. 

Then  how  they  all  had  crowded  about  him!  Clari- 
bel,  seated  in  her  dark  little  corner,  had  summoned 
them  one  by  one — Mrs.  Freddie  Matcham  with  her 
high,  bright  colour  and  wonderful  hair,  her  two  daugh- 
ters, Claribel's  cousins,  Lucy  and  Amy,  so  pretty  and 
so  stuj)id,  the  voluminous  Dorsets,  with  all  their  Bea- 
minster  connections,  Hattie  Dorset,  Dollie  Pym-Dor- 
set,  Eose  and  Emily;  then  the  men — young  Harwood 
Dorset,  who  was  no  good  at  anything,  but  danced  so 
well,  Henry  Matcham,  capable  and  intelligent  would 
he  only  work,  Pelham  Duddon,  ambitious  and  gi-asping ; 
then  her  owtl  family,  her  elder  sisters,  MorgTaunt 
(what  a  name!),  who  married  Eex  Beaminster,  and 
they  hadn't  a  penny,  and  Lucile,  unmarried,  pretty 
and  silly,  and  Dora,  serious  and  plain  and  a  miser — 
Oh!  Claribel  knew  them  all!  She  wondered,  as  she 
sat  there,  how  she  could  know  them  all  as  she  did,  and, 
after  that,  how  they  could  be  so  unaware  that  she  did 
know  them!  She  did  not  feel  herself  preternaturally 
sharp — only  that  they  were  unobservant  or  simply,  per- 
haps, that  they  had  better  things  to  observe. 

The  thing,  of  course,  that  they  were  all  just  then 
observing  was  Tom  and  his  money.  The  two  things 
were  synonymous,  and  if  they  couldn't  have  the  money 
without  Tom,  they  must  have  him  with  it.  I^ot  that 
they  minded  having  Tom — he  was  exactly  what  they 
felt  a  man  should  be — beautiful  to  look'  at,  easy  and 


NOBODY  225 

happy  and  casual,  a  splendid  sportsman,  completely 
free  of  that  tiresome  ^'analysis"  stuff  that  some  of  the 
would-ho  clever  ones  thought  so  essential. 

They  liked  Tom  and  approved  of  him,  and  oh !  how 
they  wanted  his  money!  There  was  not  one  of  them 
not  in  need  of  it !  Claribel  could  see  all  their  dazzling, 
shining  eyes  fixed  upon  those  gi-eat  piles  of  gold,  their 
beautiful  fingers  crooked  out  towards  it.  Claribel  did 
not  herself  want  money.  What  she  wanted,  more  than 
she  allowed  herself  to  think,  was  companionship  and 
friendship  and  affection.  .  .  .  And  that  she  was  in- 
clined to  think  she  was  fated  never  to  obtain. 

The  day  when  she  first  noticed  the  thing  that  was 
the  matter  with  Tom,  was  one  wet,  stormy  afternoon 
in  March;  they  were  all  gathered  together  in  Tom's 
lovely  sitting-room  in  Hortons. 

Tom,  without  being  exactly  clever  about  beautiful 
things,  had  a  fine  sense  of  the  way  that  he  wished  to 
be  served,  and  the  result  of  this  was  that  his  flat  was 
neat  and  ordered,  everything  always  in  perfect  array. 
His  man,  Sheraton,  was  an  ideal  man;  he  had  been 
Tom's  servant  before  the  war,  and  now,  released  from 
his  duties,  was  back  again;  there  was  no  reason  why 
he  should  ever  now  depart  from  them,  he  having,  as 
he  once  told  Claribel,  a  contemptuous  opinion  of  women. 
Under  Sheraton's  care,  that  long,  low-ceilinged  room, 
lined  with  bookcases  (Tom  loved  fine  bindings),  with 
its  gleaming,  polished  floor,  some  old  family  portraits 
and  rich  curtains  of  a  gleaming  dark  purple — to  Clari- 
bel this  place  was  heaven.  It  would  not,  of  course, 
have  been  so  heavenly  had  Tom  not  been  so  perfect 


226        THE  THIRTEEN  TEAVELLERS 

a  figure  moving  against  the  old  gold  frames,  the  cur- 
tains, the  leaping  fire,  looking  so  exactly,  Claribel 
thought  "the  younger  image  of  old  Theophilus  Duddon, 
stiff  and  grand  up  there  on  the  wall  in  his  white  stock 
and  velvet  coat,  Tom's  gi*eat-grandfather." 

On  this  particular  day,  Claribel's  sister,  Morgraunt 
Beaminster  and  Lucile,  Mrs.  Matcham,  Hattie  Dorset, 
and  some  men  were  present.  Tom  was  sitting  over  the 
rim  of  a  big  leather  chair  near  the  fire,  his  head  tossed 
back  laughing  at  one  of  Lucile's  silly  jokes.  Mrs. 
Matcham  was  at  the  table,  "pouring  out,"  and  Sheraton, 
rather  stout  but  othei-wise  a  fine  example  of  the  Admira- 
ble Crichton,  handed  around  the  food.  They  were 
laughing,  as  they  always  did,  at  nothing  at  all,  Lucile's 
shrill,  barking  laugh  above  the  rest.  From  the  babel 
Claribel  caught  phrases  like  "Dear  old  Tom!"  "But 
he  didn't — he  hadn't  gqt  the  intelligence."  "Tom, 
you're  a  pet.  .  .  ."  "Oh,  but  of  course  not.  What 
stuff !  Why,  Harriet  herself  .  .  . !"  Through  it  all 
Sheraton  moved  with  his  head  back,  his  indulgent  in- 
difference, his  supremely  brushed  hair.  It  was  just 
then  Claribel  caught  the  flash  from,  Mrs.  Matcham's 
beautiful  eyes.  Everyone  had  their  tea;  there  was 
nothing  left  for  her  to  do.  She  sat  there,  her  lovely 
hands  crossed  on  the  table  in  front  of  her,  her  eyes 
lost,  apparently,  in  dim  abstraction.  Clai'ibel  saw  that 
they  were  not  lost  at  all,  but  were  bent,  obliquely,  with 
a  concentrated  and  almost  passionate  interest,  upon  Tom. 
Mrs.  Matcham  wanted  something,  and  she  was  deter- 
mined this  afternoon  to  ask  for  it.  What  was  it? 
Money?      Her  debts  were  notorious.      Jewels?      She 


NOBODY  227 

was  insatiable  there  .  .  .  Freddie  Mat^ham  couldn't 
give  her  things.  Old  Lord  Ferris  wanted  to,  but 
wasn't  allowed  to.  .  .  .  Claribel  knew  all  this,  young 
though  she  was.  There  remained,  then,  as  always, 
Tom. 

Thrilled  by  this  discovery  of  Mrs.  Matcham's  eyes, 
Claribel  pursued  her  discoveries  further,  and  the  next 
thing  that  she  saw  was  that  Lucile  also  was  intent  upon 
some  prize.  Her  silly,  bright  little  eyes  were  tight- 
ened for  some  very  definite  purpose.  They  fastened 
upon  Tom  like  little  scissors.  Clajibel  knew  that  Lucile 
had  developed  recently  a  passion  for  bridge  and,  being 
stupid.  .  .  .  Yes,  Lucile  wanted  money.  Claribel 
allowed  herself  a  little  shudder  of  disgust.  She  was 
only  seventeen  and  wore  spectacles,  and  was  plain,  but 
at  that  moment  she  felt  herself  to  be  infinitely  superior 
to  the  whole  lot  of  them.  She  had  her  own  private 
comfortable  arrogances. 

It  was  then,  while  she  was  despising  them,  that  she 
niade  her  discovery  about  Tom.  She  looked  across  at 
him  wondering  whether  he  had  noticed  any  of  the  things 
that  had  struck  her.  She  at  the  same  time  sighed,  see- 
ing that  she  had  made,  as  she  always  did,  a  nasty 
sloppy  mess  in  her  saucer,  and  knowing  that  Morgraunt 
(the  watchdog  of  the  family)  would  be  certain  to  no- 
tice and  scold  her  for  it. 

She  looked  across  at  Tom  and  discovered  suddenly 
that  he  wasn't  there.  The  shell  of  him  was  there,  the 
dark  clothes,  the  black  tie  with  the  pearl  pin,  the  white 
shirt,  the  faintly-coloured  clear-cut  mask  with  the  shin- 
ing hair,  the  white  throat,  the  heavy  eye-lashes — the 


228        THE  THIRTEEN  TEAVELLERS 

shell,  the  maskj  nothing  else.  She  could  never  remem- 
ber afterwards  exactly  what  it  was  that  made  her  cer- 
tain that  nobody  was  there.  Lucile  was  talking  to 
him,  eagerly,  repeating,  as  she  always  did,  her  words 
over  and  over  again.  He  was,  apparently,  looking  np 
at  her,  a  smile  on  his  lips.  Morgraunt,  so  smart  with 
the  teasing  blue  feather  in  her  hat,  was  looking  across 
at  them  intent  upon  what  Lucile  was  saying.  He  was 
apparently  looking  at  Lucile,  and  yet  his  eyes  were  dead, 
sightless,  like  the  eyes  of  a  statue.  In  his  hand  he 
apparently  held  a  cigarette,  and  yet  his  hand  was  of 
marble,  no  life  ran  through  the  veins.  Claribel  even 
fancied,  so  deeply  excited  had  she  become,  that  you 
could  see  the  glitter  of  the  fire  through  his  dai'k  body 
as  he  sat  carefully  balanced  on  the  edge  of  the  chair. 

There  was  !N^obody  there,  and  then,  as  she  began  to 
reflect,  there  never  had  been  anybody  since  the  Armi- 
stice. Tom  had  never  returned  from  France;  only  a 
framework  with  clothes  hung  upon  it,  a  doll,  an  automa- 
ton, did  Tom's  work  and  fulfilled  his  place.  Tom's  soul 
had  remained  in  Erance.  He  did  not  really  hear  what 
Lucile  was  saying.  He  did  not  care  what  any  of  them 
were  doing,  and  that,  of  course,  accounted  for  the  won- 
derful way  that,  during  these  past  weeks,  he  had  acqui- 
esced in  every  one  of  their  proposals.  They  had  many 
of  them  commented  on  Tom's  extraordinary  good  nature 
now  that  he  had  returned.  "You  really  could  do  any- 
thing with  him  that  you  pleased,"  Claribel  had  heard 
Morgi'aunt  triumphantly  exclaim.  Well,  so  you  can 
with  a  corpse!  .  .  . 

As  she  stared  at  him  and  realised  the  di'amatic  import 


NOBODY  229 

of  her  discovery,  she  was  suddenly  filled  with  pity.  Poor 
Toroj!  How  terrible  that  time  in  France  must  have 
been  to  have  killed  him  like  that,  and  nobody  had  known. 
They  had  thought  that  he  had  taken  it  so  easily,  he 
had  laughed  and  jested  with  the  others,  had  always  re- 
turned to  France  gaily.  .  .  .  How  terrified  he  must  have 
been — ^before  he  died! 

As  she  watched  him,  he  got  up  from  the  chair  and 
stood  before  the  fire,  his  legs  spread  out.  The  others 
had  gathered  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  busied  around 
Hattie,  who  was  trving  some  new  Jazz  tunes  on  the 
piano.  Mrs.  Matcham  got  up  from  her  table  and  went 
over  to  Tom  and  began  eagerly  to  talk  to  him.  Her 
hands  were  clasped  behind  her  beautiful  back,  and  Clari- 
bel  could  see  how  the  fingers  twisted  and  untwisted 
again  and  again  over  the  urgency  of  her  request. 

Claribel  saw  Tom's  face.  The  mask  was  the  love- 
lier now  because  she  knew  that  there  was  no  life  behind 
it.  She  saw  the  lips  smile,  the  eyes  shine,  the  head 
bend.  It  was  to  her  as  though  someone  were  turning 
an  electric  button  behind  there  in  the  middle  of  his 
back.  .  .  . 

He  nodded.  Mrs.  Matcham  laughed.  ''Oh,  you 
darling!"  Claribel  heard  her  cry.  "If  you  only  knew 
what  you've  done  for  me!" 

The  party  was  over.     They  all  began  to  go. 

Claribel  was  right.    There  was  Nobody  there. 

When  everybody  had  gone  that  evening  and  the  body 
of  Tom  was  alone,  it  surveyed  the  beautiful  room. 

Tom's  body    (which  may  for   the  moment  be  con- 


230        THE  THIKTEEN  TRAVELLEKS 

veniently  but  falsely  called  Tom)  looked  about  and  felt 
a  wave  of  miserable,  impotent  uselessness. 

Tom  summoned  Sheraton. 

"Clear  all  these  things  away,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I'm  going  out." 

"Yes,  sir."     "Dinner  jacket  to-night,  sir?" 

"JSTo,  I'm  not  dressing."  He  went  to  the  door,  then 
turned  round.     "Sheraton!" 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  me  ?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?  You  know  what  I 
mean  as  well  as  I  do.  Ever  since  I  came  back.  .  .  . 
I  can't  take  an  interest  in  anything — not  in  anything 
nor  in  anybody.  To-day,  for  instance,  I  didn't  hear 
a  word  that  they  were  saying,  not  one  of  them,  and 
they  made  enough  noise,  too!  I  don't  care  for  any- 
thing, I  don't  want  anything,  I  don't  like  anything, 
I  don't  hate  anything.  It's  as  though  I  were  asleep — 
and  yet  I'm  not  asleep  either.  What's  the  matter  with 
me,  Sheraton?" 

Sheraton's  eyes,  that  had  been  so  insistently  veiled 
by  decent  society,  as  expressionless  as  a  pair  of  mar- 
bles, were  suddenly  human ;  Sheraton's  voice,  which 
had  been  something  like  the  shadow  of  a  real  voice, 
was  suddenly  full  of  feeling. 

"Why,  sir,  of  course  I've  noticed  .  .  .  being  with 
you  before  the  war  and  all,  and  being  fond  of  you,  if 
you'll  forgive  my  saying  so,  so  that  I  always  hoped 
that  I'd  come  back  to  you.     Why,  if  you  ask  me,  sir, 


NOBODY  231 

it's  just  the  bloody  war — that's  all  it  is.  I've  felt  some- 
thing of  the  same  kind  myself.  I'm  getting  over  it  a 
bit.  It'll  pass,  sir.  The  V7ar  leaves  you  kind  o'  dead. 
People  don't  seem  real  any  more.  If  you  could  get  fond 
of  some  young  lady,  Mr.  Duddon,  I'm  sure.  .  .  ." 

"Thanks,  Sheraton.  I  dare  say  you're  right."  He 
went  out. 

It  was  a  horrible  night.  The  March  wind  was  tear- 
ing down  Duke  Street,  hurling  itself  at  the  windows, 
plucking  with  its  fingei's  at  the  doors,  screaming  and 
laughing  down  the  chimneys.  The  decorous  decencies 
of  that  staid  bachelor  St.  James's  world  seemed  to  be 
nothing  to  its  mood  of  wilful  bad  temper.  Through 
the  clamour  of  banging  doors  and  creaking  windows  the 
bells  of  St.  James's  Church  could  be  heard  striking 
seven  o'clock. 

The  rain  was  intermittent,  and  fell  in  sudden  little 
gusts,  like  the  subsiding  agonies  of  a  weeping  child. 
Every  once  and  again  a  thin  wet  wisp  of  a  moon  showed 
dimly  grey  through  heavy  piles  of  driving  cloud.  Tom 
found  Bond  Street  almost  deserted  of  foot  passengers. 

Buttoning  his  high  blue  collar  up  about  his  neck, 
he  set  himself  to  face  the  storm.  The  drive  of  the 
rain  against  his  cheeks  gave  him  some  sort  of  dim  satis- 
faction after  the  close  warm  comfort  of  his  flat. 

Somewhere,  far,  far  away  in  him,  a  voice  was  ques- 
tioning him  as  to  why  he  had  given  Mrs.  Matcham 
that  money.  The  voice  reminded  him  of  what  indeed 
he  very  well  knew,  that  it  was  exactly  like  throwing 
water  down  a  well,  that  it  would  do  Millie  Matcham 
no  good,   that   it  was  wasted   money.  .  .  .  Well,    he 


232         THE  THIETEE:^  TEAVELLERS 

didn't  care.  The  voice  was  too  far  away,  and  altogether 
had  too  little  concern  with  him  to  disturb  him  very 
deeply.  Nothing  disturbed  him,  damn  it — nothing, 
nothing,  nothing! 

When  he  was  almost  upon  Grosvenor  Street,  a  sud- 
den gust  of  wind  drove  at  him  so  furiously  that,  almost 
without  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  instinctively  he 
stepped  back  to  take  shelter  beneath  a  wooden  board- 
ing. Here  a  street  lamp  gave  a  pale  yellow  colour  to 
the  dark  shadows,  and  from  its  cover  the  street  shot 
like  a  gleaming  track  of  steel  into  the  clustered  lights 
of  Oxford  Street. 

Tom  was  aware  that  two  people  had  taken  shelter 
in  the  same  refuge.  He  peered  at  their  dim  figures. 
He  saw  at  once  that  they  were  old — an  old  man  and 
an  old  woman. 

He  did  not  know  what  it  was  that  persuaded  him 
to  stare  at  them  as  though  they  could  be  of  any  im- 
portance to  him.  JSTothing  could  be  of  any  importance 
to  him,  and  he  was  attracted,  perhaps,  rather  by  a  kind 
of  snivelling,  sniffling  noise  that  one  of  them  made. 
The  old  lady — she  had  a  terrible  cold.  She  sneezed 
violently',  and  the  old  man  uttered  a  scornful  "chut- 
chut"  like  an  angry,  battered  bird.  Then  he  peered 
up  at  Tom  and  said  in  a  complaining,  whining  voice: 

"What  a  night!" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Tom.     "You'd  better  get  home." 

His  eyes  growing  accustomed  to  the  gloom,  he  saw 
the  pair  distinctly.  The  old  man  was  wearing  a  high 
hat,  battered  and  set  rakishly  on  the  side  of  his  head. 
The  collar  of  a  threadbare  overcoat  was  turned  up  high 


NOBODY  233 

over  his  skinny  neck.  He  wore  shabby  black  gloves. 
The  old  lady,  sheltering  behind  the  old  man,  was  less 
easily  discerned.  She  was  a  humped  and  disconcerted 
shadow,  with  a  feather  in  her  hat  and  a  sharp  nose. 

"You'd  better  be  getting  home,"  Tom  repeated,  won- 
dering to  himself  that  he  stayed. 

The  old  man  peered  up  at  him. 

"You're  out  for  no  good,  I  reckon,"  he  mumbled. 
"Waiting  like  this  on  a  night  like  this."  There  was 
a  note  in  his  voice  of  scornful  patronage. 

"I'm  not  out  for  anything  particular,"  said  Tom. 
"Simply  taking  a  walk."  The  old  lady  sneezed  again. 
"You'd  really  better  be  going  home.  Your  wife's  got 
a  terrible  cold." 

"She's  not  my  wife,"  said  the  old  man.  "She's  my 
sister,  if  you  want  to  know." 

"I  don't  want  to  know  especially,"  said  Tom.  "Well, 
good-night:  I  see  the  rain's  dropped." 

He  stepped  out  into  Bond  Street,  and  then  (on  look- 
ing back  he  could  never  define  precisely  the  impulse 
that  drove  him)  he  hurried  back  to  them. 

"You'd  better  let  me  get  you  a  cab  or  something," 
he  said.    "You  really  ought  to  go  home." 

The  old  man  snarled  at  him.  "You  let  us  alone," 
he  said.     "We  haven't  done  you  any  harm." 

The  impulse  persisted. 

"I'm  going  to  get  you  a  cab,"  he  said.  "Whether  you 
like  it  or  no." 

"ISTone  of  your  bloody  philanthropy,"  said  the  old 
man.     "I  know  you.     M'rier  and  me's  all  right." 

It  was  Maria  then  who  took  the  next  step  in  the 


234         THE  THIRTEEN  TEAVELLEES 

affair.  Tom,  altkougli  he  was  afterwards  to  have  a 
very  considerable  knowledge  of  that  old  lady,  could 
never  definitely  determine  as  to  whether  the  step  that 
she  took  was  honest  or  no.  What  she  did  was  to  col- 
lapse into  the  sodden  pavement  in  a  black  and  grimy 
heap.  The  feather  stood  out  from  the  collapse  with  a 
jaunty,  ironical  gesture. 

"  'Ere,  M'rier,"  said  the  old  man,  very  much  as 
though  he  were  addressing  a  recalcitrant  horse,  "you 
get  hup." 

^o  sound  came  from  the  heap.  Tom  bent  down. 
He  touched  her  soiled  velvet  coat,  lifted  an  arm,  felt 
the  weight  sink  beneath  him.  "Well,"  he  said,  al- 
most defiantly,  to  the  old  man,  "what  are  you  going  to 
do  now  ?" 

"She's  always  doing  it,"  he  answered,  "and  at  the 
most  aggravating  moments."  Then  with  something 
that  looked  suspiciously  like  a  kick,  he  repeated:  "You 
get  hup,  M'rier." 

"Look  here,  you  can't  do  that,"  Tom  cried.  "What 
an  old  devil  you  are!  We've  got  to  get  her  out  of 
this." 

A  voice  addressed  them  from  the  street :  "Anything 
the  matter  ?"  it  said. 

Tom  turned  and  found  that  the  driver  of  a  taxi  had 
pulled  up  his  machine  and  was  peering  into  the  shadow. 

"Yes.  There's  been  an  accident,"  Tom  said.  "This 
lady's  fainted.    We'd  better  get  her  home." 

"Where's  she  going  to  ?"  said  the  di-iver  suspiciously. 

"What  business  is  that  of  yours?"  cried  the  old 
man  furiously.     "You  just  leave  us  alone." 


NOBODY  235 

":N'o,  you  couldn't,  do  that,"  Tom  answered.  "There'll 
be  a  policeman  here  in  a  moment,  and  he'll  have  you 
home  whether  you  want  it  or  not.  You  never  can  lift 
her  yourself,  and  you  can't  leave  her  there.  You'd 
better  help  me  get  her  into  the  cab !" 

The  old  man  began  to  gargle  strangely  in  his  throat. 

"Policeman!"  he  seemed  to  say.  "If  I  'ad  my 
way " 

"Well,  for  once  you  haven't,"  said  Tom  shortly. 
"Here,  driver,  help  me  lift  her  in." 

"Where's  she  going  ?"  he  repeated. 

"If  you  don't  help  me  at  once  I'll  see  that  a  police- 
man is  here.  I've  got  your  number.  You'll  hear  from 
me  in  the  morning." 

The  man  got  off  his  box,  cursing.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  then  came  across.  Together  he  and  Tom  lifted 
the  inert  mass,  pushed  it  through  the  door  of  the  cab 
and  settled  it  in  the  seat. 

"Makin'  my  cab  dirty  and  all,"  growled  the  driver. 

"Well,"  said  Tom  to  the  old  man,  "are  you  going 
to  see  your  sister  home?  If  not,  I  shall  take  her  to 
the  nearest  hospital." 

For  a  moment  the  old  man  remained  perched  up 
against  the  wall,  his  top  hat  flaunting  defiance  to  the 
whole  world.  Suddenly,  as  though  he  had  been  pushed, 
he  came  across  to  the  driver. 

"Eleven  D  Porkei*'s  Buildings,  Victoria,"  he  said. 

"B  ?"  asked  the  driver. 

"D,  you  damned  fool,"  the  old  man  almost  shouted. 

"Thought  you  said  B,"  remarked  the  driver  very 
amiably. 


236        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLEES 

The  old  man  got  in.  He  was  on  one  side  of  the 
motionless  Maria,  Tom  on  the  other. 

That  was  a  remarkable  and  even  romantic  ride.  The 
roads  were  slippery,  and  the  driver,  it  appeared,  a  little 
drunk.  The  cab  rocked  like  a  drunken  boat,  and  the 
watery  moon,  now  triumphant  over  the  clouds,  the 
gleaming  pavement,  the  houses,  gaunt  in  the  uncertain 
mioonlight,  and  thin  as  though  they  had  been  cut  from 
black  paper,  seemed  to  be  inebriated  too.  Maria  shared 
in  the  general  irresponsibility,  lurching  from  side  to 
side,  and  revealing,  now  that  her  hat  was  on  Tom's 
lap,  an  ancient  peeked  face  with  as  many  lines  on  it 
as  an  Indian's,  and  grey,  untidy  hair.  She  seemed  a 
lifeless  thing  enough,  and  yet  Tom  had  a  strange  notion 
that  one  eye  was  open,  and  not  only  watching,  but 
winking  as  weU. 

It  would  have  been  the  natural  thing  to  have  opened 
her  dress  and  given  her  air,  to  have  poured  whisky  or 
brandy  down  her  throat,  to  have  tickled  her  with  feath- 
ers !  Tom  did  none  of  these  things :  afterwards  he 
imagined  that  his  inaction  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
he  knew  all  the  time  that  she  had  not  really  fainted. 

Not  a  word  was  exchanged  during  the  journey.  They 
drove  down  Victoria  Street,  turned  off  on  the  right  of 
Westminster  Cathedral,  and  drew  up  in  a  narrow,  dirty 
street. 

A  high  block  had  "Porker's  Buildings"  printed  in 
large,  ugly  letters  on  the  fanlight  near  the  door. 

"You'd  better  help  me  lift  her  in,"  Tom  said  to  the 
driver.     "The  old  man's  not  good  for  anything." 

The  driver  grunted,  but  helped  Maria  into  the  street. 


NOBODY  237 

The  fresh  night  air  seemed  to  refresh  her.  She  sighed 
and  then  sneezed. 

"Mayhe  she  can  walk  herself,"  said  the  driver. 

The  door  opened  of  itself,  and  Tom  was  in  a  dark, 
dingy  hall  with  a  faint  gas-jet  like  a  ghostly  eye  to 
guide  him.     The  old  man  started  up  the  stairs. 

"Can  you  walk  a  hit  ?"  Tom  asked  the  old  lady. 

She  nodded.  Tom  paid  the  driver  and  the  door 
closed  hehind  him.  It  was  a  hard  fight  to  conquer 
the  stairs,  and  Maria  clung  like  a  heavy  bag  round 
her  deliverer's  neck;  but  on  the  third  floor  the  old 
man  unlocked  a  door,  walked  in  before  them  and  lighted 
a  candle.  He  then  sat  himself  down  with  his  back 
to  them,  pulled  a  grimy  piece  of  newspaper  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  was  apparently  at  once  absorbed  in  reading. 

The  room  was  a  wretched  enough  place.  One  of 
the  windows  was  stuffed  with  brown  paper;  a  ragged 
strip  of  carpet  covered  only  a  section  of  the  cracked 
and  dirty  boards.  There  was  a  grimy  bed;  the  fire- 
place was  filled  with  rubbish. 

Tom  helped  Maria  on  to  the  bed  and  looked  about 
him.  Then  in  a  sudden  fit  of  irritation  he  went  up 
to  the  old  man  and  shook  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "This  won't  do.  You've  got 
to  do  something  for  her.  She  may  die  in  the  night, 
or  anything.  I'll  fetch  a  doctor,  if  that's  what  you 
want,  or  get  something  from  the  chemist's " 

"Oh !  go  to  hell !"  said  the  old  man  without  turning. 

An  impulse  of  rage  seized  Tom,  and  he  caught  the 
old  man  by  the  collar,  swung  him  out  of  the  chair, 


238         THE  THIETEEN  TKAVELLEES 

shook  him  until  he  was  breathless  and  coughing,  then 
said: 

"Now  be  civil." 

The  old  man  collapsed  on  the  bed  near  his  sister, 
struggled  for  breath,  then  screamed : 

"You  damned  aristocrat!  I'll  have  you  up  before 
the  courts  for  this;  invading  a  man's  peaceable 
'ome " 

Then  Maria  unexpectedly  interfered.  She  sat  up, 
smoothing  her  hair  with  her  old  trembling  fingers.  "I'm 
sure,"  she  said,  in  a  mincing,  apologetic  voice,  "that 
we  ought  to  be  grateful  to  the  gentleman,  Andrew.  If 
it  'adn't  been  for  him,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where 
we'd  'ave  been.  It's  your  wicked  temper  you're  always 
losing.  I've  told  you  of  it  again  and  again — I'm  much 
better  now,  thank  you,  sir,  and  I'm  sure  I'm  properly 
grateful." 

Tom  looked  around  him,  then  back  at  the  two  old 
people. 

"What  a  filthy  place,"  he  said.  "Haven't  you  got 
anybody  to  look  after  you  ?" 

"Me  daughter  run  away  with  a  musical  gentleman," 
said  Maria.  "Me  'usband  died  of  D.T.'s  three  years 
back.  Andrew  and  meself's  alone  now.  We  get  the 
Old  Age  Pension,  and  manage  very  nicely,  thank  you." 

"Well,  I'm  coming  back  to-morrow,"  said  Tom 
fiercely,  turning  on  the  old  man.     "Do  you  hear  that  ?" 

"If  yer  do,"  said  Andrew,  "I'll  'ave  the  perlice  after 
you." 

"Oh,  no  'e  won't,"  said  Maria.  "That's  only  'is  little 
way.     I'm  sure  we'll  be  pleased  to  see  you." 


NOBODY  239 

Tom  put  some  money  on  the  bed  and  left. 

Out  in  the  street  he  paused.  What  was  the  matter 
with  him?  He  stood  in  the  street  looking  up  at  the 
Westminster  Cathedral  Tower  and  the  thin  sheeting 
of  sky  now  clear — a  pale,  boundless  sea  in  which  two 
or  three  little  stars  were  remotely  sailing.  What  was 
the  matter  with  him  ? 

He  felt  a  strange  stirring  and  trembling  about  him. 
He  had  some  of  the  pain  and  hurt  that  a  man  feels 
when  he  is  first  revived  from  some  drowning  adven- 
ture. But  it  was  a  pain  and  hurt  of  the  soul,  not  of 
the  body.  His  heart  beat  expectantly,  as  though  around 
the  corner  of  the  lonely  street  a  wonderful  stranger 
might  suddenly  be  expected  to  appear.  He  even 
strained  his  eyes  against  the  shadows,  piercing  them 
and  finding  only  more  shadows  behind  them. 

He  even  felt  tired  and  exhausted,  as  though  he  had 
but  now  passed  through  a  great  emotional  experience. 

And  all  these  sensations  were  clear  and  precious  to 
him.  He  treasured  them,  standing  there,  breathing 
deeply,  as  though  he  were  in  new  air  of  somfe  high  alti- 
tude. The  boom  of  Big  Ben  came  suddenly  across  the 
silence  like  a  summoning  voice  across  waste,  deserted 
country,  and  he  went  home.  .  .  . 

When  he  awoke  next  morning  he  was  aware  that 
something  had  happened  to  him,  and  he  did  not  know 
what  it  was.  He  lay  there  definitely  beating  back  an 
impulse  to  spring  out  of  bed,  hurry  through  his  bath, 
dress,  and  have  breakfast,  and  then — ^what?  He  had 
not  felt  such  an  impulse  since  his  return  from  France, 
and  it  could  not  be  that  he  felt  it  now  simply  because 


240        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

he  had,  last  night,  met  two  dirty,  bedraggled  old  people 
and  helped  them  homa 

He  laughed.  Sheraton,  hanging  his  shirt  on  the 
back  of  a  chair,  turned. 

''Well,  you're  feeling  better  this  morning,  sir,"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Tom,  "and  I'mj  damned  if  I  know 
why."  K'evertheless,  although  he  did  not  know  why, 
before  the  morning  was  out  he  found  himself  once  more 
behind  Victoria  Street  and  climbing  the  stairs  of 
Porker's  Buildings.  He  had  strange  experiences  that 
morning.  To  many  they  would  have  been  disappoint- 
ing. The  old  man  was  silent:  not  a  word  would  he 
sav.  His  attitude  was  one  of  hauffhtv,  autocratic  su- 
periority.  Mai'ia  disgusted  Tom.  She  was  polite, 
cringing  even,  and  as  poisonous  as  a  snake.  She  stated 
her  wants  quite  modestly:  had  it  not  been  for  her  age 
you  would  have  thought  her  a  typical  image  of  the 
down-trodden,  subjected  poor.     Her  eyes  glittered. 

"Well,  you  are  a  nasty  old  creatui'e."  Tom  turned 
from  her  and  shook  Andrew  by  the  sho"Jder. 

"Well  ?"  said  Andrew. 

"There's  nothing  now  I  can  do  ?"  asked  Tom. 

"Except  get  out,"  said  Andrew. 

Another  old  woman  came  in — ^then  a  young  m-an. 
A  fine  specimen  this  last — a  local  prize-fighter,  it  ap- 
peared— chest  like  a  wall,  thick,  stumpy  thighs,  face 
of  a  beetroot  colour,  nose  twisted,  ears  like  saucers.  The 
old  woman,  Maiia's  friend,  was  voluble.  She  explained 
a  great  deal  to  Tom.  She  was  used,  it  seemed,  to  speak- 
ing in  public.    They  could  afford,  she  explained,  to  be 


NOBODY  24i; 

indifferent  to  the  "Quality"  now,  because  a  time  was 
very  shortly  coming  when  they  would  have  everything, 
and  the  Quality  nothing.  It  had  happened  far  away 
in  Russia,  and  it  was  about  to  happen  here.  A  good 
thing  too.  ...  At  last  the  poor  people  could  appear 
as  they  really  were,  hold  their  heads  up.  Only  a  month 
or  two  .  .  . 

"You're  a  Bolshevist,"  said  Tom. 

Long  words  did  not  distress  the  old  lady.  "A  fine 
time's  coming,"  she  said. 

Maria  did  not  refuse  the  food  and  the  finery  and  the 
money.  "You  think,"  said  Tom,  as  a  final  word  to 
her  old  lady  friend,  "that  I'm  doing  this  because  I'm 
charitable,  because  I  love  you,  or  some  nonsense  of 
that  kind.  Not  at  all.  I'm  doing  it  because  I'm  inter- 
ested, and  I  haven't  been  interested  in  anything  for 
months." 

He  arranged  with  the  pugilist  to  be  present  at  his 
next  encounter,  somewhere  in  Blackfriars,  next  Mon- 
day night. 

"It's  against  the  Bermondsey  Chick,"  Battling  Bill 
explained  huskily.  "I've  got  one  on  him.  Your 
money's  safe  enough.  .  .  ." 

Tom  gave  Maria  a  parting  smile. 

"I  don't  like  you,"  he  said,  "and  I  can  see  that  you 
positively  hate  me,  but  we're  getting  along  very 
nicely " 

It  is  at  this  point  that  Claribel  again  takes  up  the 
narrative.    It  was,  of  course,  not  many  days  before,  in 


242        THE  THIETEEN"  TRAVELLERS 

Tom's  own  world,  "What's  happened  to  Tom  ?"  was  on 
everyone's  lips. 

Claribel  was  interested  as  anyone,  and  she  had,  of 
course,  her  own  theories.  These  theories  changed  from 
day  to  day,  but  the  fact,  patent  to  the  world  and  be^ 
yond  argument,  was  that  Tom  was  "ISTobody"  no 
longer.  Life  had  come  back  to  him ;  he  was  eagerly, 
passionately  "out"  upon  some  secret  quest. 

It  amused  Claribel  to  watch  her  friends  and  relations 
as  they  set  forth,  determined  to  lay  bare  Tom's  mystery. 
Mrs.  Matcham,  who  had  her  own  very  definite  reasons 
for  not  allowing  Tom  to  escape,  declared  that  of  course 
it  was  a  "woman."  But  this  did  not  elucidate  the  puz- 
zle. Had  it  been  some  married  woman,  Tom  would 
not  have  been  so  perfectly  "open"  about  his  disappear- 
ances. He  never  denied  for  a  moment  that  he  disap- 
peared ;  he  rather  liked  them  to  know  that  he  did.  It 
was  plainly  nothing  of  which  he  was  ashamed.  He  had 
been  seen  at  no  restaurants  with  anyone — no  chorus- 
girl,  no  girl  at  all,  in  fact.  Dollie  P^Tn-Dorset,  who  was 
a  little  sharper  than  the  others,  simply  because  she  was 
more  determinedly  predatory,  declared  that  Tom  was 
learning  a  trade. 

"He  will  turn  up  suddenly  one  day,"  she  said,  "as  a 
chauffeur,  or  an  engineer,  or  a  bootblack.  He's  trying 
to  find  something  to  fill  up  his  day." 

"He's  found  it,"  Lucile  cried  with  her  shrill  laugh. 
"Whatever  it  is,  it  keeps  him  going.  He's  never  in; 
Sheraton  declares  he  doesn't  know  where  he  goes.  It's 
disgusting.  .  .  ." 

Old  Lord  Ferris,  who  took  an  indulgent  interest  in 


NOBODY  243 

all  the  Duddon  developments  because  of  his  paternal 
regard  for  Mrs.  Matcham,  declared  that  it  was  one  of 
these  new  religions.  "They're  simply  all  over  the  place ; 
a  feller  catches  'em  as  he  would  the  measles.  Why,  I 
know  a  chap  .  .  ." 

But  no.  Tom  didn't  look  as  though  he  had  found  a 
new  religion.  He  had  made  no  new  resolutions,  dropped 
no  profanities,  lost  in  no  way  his  sense  of  humour.  'No, 
it  didn't  look  like  a  religion. 

Claribel's  convictions  about  it  were  not  very  positive. 
She  was  simply  so  glad  that  he  had  become  "Somebody" 
again,  and  she  had  perhaps  a  malicious  pleasure  in  the 
disappointment  of  "the  set."  It  amused  her  to  see  the 
golden  purse  slipping  out  of  their  eager  fingers,  and 
they  so  determined  to  stay  it. 

The  pursuit  continued  for  weeks.  Everyone  was 
drawn  into  it.  Even  old  Lord  John  Beaminster,  who 
was  beset  with  debts  and  gout,  stirred  up  his  sister 
Adela  to  see  whether  she  couldn't  "discover"  some^ 
thing.  .  .  . 

It  was  Henry  Matcham  who  finally  achieved  the  rev- 
elation. He  came  bursting  in  upon  them  all.  The  se- 
cret was  out.  Tom  had  turned  "pi "  He  was  work- 
ing down  in  the  East  End  to  save  souls. 

The  news  was  greeted  with  incredulity.  "Tom  soul- 
saving?  Impossible!  Tom  the  cynic,  the  ii-religious, 
the  despiser  of  dogma,  the  arbitrator  of  indifference — 
Incredible." 

But  Matcham  knew.  There  could  be  no  doubt.  A 
man  he  knew  in  Brooks's  had  a  brother,  a  parson  in  an 
East-End   Settlement.      The  parson  knew   Tom  well, 


244        THE  THIKTEEi^  TRAVELLEES 

said  lie  was  always  down  there,  in  the  men's  clubs  and 
about  the  streets. 

They  looked  at  one  another  in  dismay.  Claribel 
laughed  to  see  them.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Tom  must 
be  saved,  of  course ;  but  how  ?  ^o  plan  could  be  evoked. 
"Well,  the  first  thing  we  must  do,"  said  Mrs.  Matcham, 
'•'is  to  get  a  plain  statement  from  himself  about  it." 

They  sent  Claribel  as  their  ambassador,  realising, 
suddenly,  that  ^"^she  had  some  sense,"  and  that  Tom 
liked  her. 

She  told  him,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye,  what  they 
wanted. 

"They're  all  very  much  upset  by  what  you're  doing, 
Tom.  Thev  don't  want  to  lose  vou,  vou  see.  Thev're 
fond  of  you.  And  they  don't  think  it  can  be  good  for 
you  being  all  the  time  with  Bolsheviks  and  dirty  for- 
eigners. You'll  only  be  taken  in  by  them,  they  think, 
and  robbed;  and  that  they  can't  bear.  Especially  they 
think  that  now  after  the  war  everyone  ought  to  stand 
together,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  you  know,  class  by  class. 
That's  the  way  Henry  Matcham  puts  it. 

"Of  course,  thev  admire  vou  verv  much,  what  vou're 
doing — they  think  it  very  noble.  But  ail  this  slumming 
seems  to  them  .  .  .  what  did  Dollie  call  it?  .  .  .  Oh, 
yes,  vieux  jeu  .  .  .  the  sort  of  thing  young  men  did  in 
the  nineties,  centui"ies  ago.  Oxford  House,  and  all  that. 
It  seems  rather  stupid  to  them  to  go  back  to  it  now,  es- 
pecially when  the  war's  shown  the  danger  of  Bol- 
shevism." 

Tom  laughed.  '^Why,  Carrie,"  he  said,  "how  well 
you  know  them !" 


NOBODY  245 

She  laughed  too.  "Anyway,"  she  said,  "I  know  you 
better  than  they  do." 

Tom  agreed  that  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for 
them  all  to  meet. 

"They've  got  what's  happened  just  a  trifle  wrong," 
he  saifl.     "It's  only  fair  to  clear  things  up." 

They  all  appeared  on  the  appointed  day — Mrs. 
Matcham,  as  president,  in  a  lovely  rose-coloured  tulle 
for  which  she  was  just  a  little  too  old,  Hattie,  Dollie, 
Harwood  Dorset,  Henry  Matcham,  Pelham  Duddon, 
Morgi'aunt  and  Lucile,  Dora,  and  of  course  Claribel. 
The  event  had  the  appearance  of  one  of  the  dear  old 
parties. 

The  flat  was  just  as  beautiful,  the  tea  as  sumptuous, 
Sheraton  as  perfect.  They  hung  around  the  same 
chairs,  the  same  table,  in  all  their  finery  and  beauty 
and  expense.  They  were  as  sure  of  conquest  as  they 
had  ever  been. 

Tom  sat  on  the  red  leather  top  of  the  fire-guard  and 
faced  them. 

Mrs.  Matcham  led  the  attack. 

"Now,  dear  old  Tom,"  she  said,  in  that  cooing  and 
persuasive  voice  of  hers,  so  well  known  and  so  well 
liked ;  "you  know  that  we  all  love  you." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  do,"  said  Tom,  gi-inning. 

"We  do.  All  of  us.  You've  just  been  a  hero,  and 
we're  all  proud  to  death  of  you.  It's  only  our  pride 
and  our  love  for  you  that  allows  us  to  interfere.  We 
don't  want  to  interfere,  but  we  do  want  to  know  what's 
happening.  Henry  has  heard  that  you're  working  down 
in  the  East  End,  doing  splendidly,  and  it's  just  like 


246        THE  THIETEEN  TRAVELLERS 

your  dear  old  noble  self,  but  is  it  wise?  Are  you 
taking  advice  ?  Won't  those  people  down  tbere  do  you 
in,  so  to  speak  ?  I  know  that  this  is  a  time,  of  course, 
when  we've  all  got  to  study  social  conditions.  IsTo 
thinking  man  or  woman  can  possibly  look  round  and  not 
see  that  there  is  a  great  deal  ...  a  whole  lot  .  .  . 
well,  anyway,  you  know  what  I  mean,  Tom.  But  is  it 
right,  without  consulting  any  of  us,  to  go  down  to  all 
those  queer  people?  They  can't  like  you  really,  you 
know.  It's  only  for  what  they  can  get  out  of  you,  and 
all  that.  After  all,  your  own  people  are  your  own 
people,  aren't  they,  Tom  dear  ?" 

"I  don't  know."  Tomj  looked  up  at  her  smiling. 
"But  I  don't  think  that's  exactly  the  point.  They 
may  be  or  they  may  not.  .  .  .  Look  here.  You've  got 
one  or  two  wrong  ideas  about  this.  I  want  you  to  have 
the  truth,  and  then  we  won't  have  to  bother  one  another 
any  more.  You  talk  about  my  working  and  being 
noble,  and  so  on.  That's  the  most  awful  Tommy-rot. 
I'll  tell  you  exactly  what  happened.  I  came  back  from 
France.  At  least,  no,  I  didn't  come  back ;  but  my  body 
came  back,  if  you  know  what  I  mean.  I  stayed  over 
there.  At  least,  I  suppose  that  is  what  happened.  I 
didn't  know  myself  what  it  was.  I  just  know  that  I 
didn't  exist.  You  all  used  to  come  to  tea  here  and  be 
awfully  nice  and  so  on,  but  I  didn't  hear  a  word  any  of 
you  said.  I  hope  that  doesn't  sound  rude,  but  I'm  try- 
ing to  tell  exactly  what  occurred.  I  didn't  know  what 
was  the  matter  with  me — I  wasn't  anybody  at  all.  I 
was  ]^obody.  I  didn't  exist ;  and  I  asked  Sheraton,  and 
he  didn't  know  either.    And  then,  one  night " 


NOBODY  247 

Tom  paused.  The  dramatic  moment  had  come.  He 
knew  the  kind  of  thing  that  they  were  expecting,  and 
when  he  thought  of  the  reality  he  laughed. 

^'One  night — well,  you  won't  believe  me,  I  suppose, 
if  I  tell  you  I  was  very  unhappy — no,  unhappy  is  too 
strong^-1  was  just  nothing  at  all.  You'd  all  been  here 
to  tea,  and  I  went  out  for  a  walk  down  Bond  Street  to 
clear  my  head.  It  was  raining  and  I  found  two  old 
things  taking  shelter  under  a  wooden  standing.  The 
old  lady  fainted  while  I  was  talking  to  them,  and  I  saw 
them  home — And — well,  that's  all !" 

"That's  all !"  cried  Millie  Matcham.  "Do  you  mean, 
Tom,  that  you  fell  in  love  with  the  old  woman  !" 

Her  laue:h  was  shrill  and  anxious. 

He  laughed  back.  "Fell  in  love!  That's  just  like 
you,  Millie.  You  think  that  love  must  be  in  it  every 
time.  There  isn't  any  love  in  this — and  there  isn't  any 
devotion,  or  religion,  or  high-mindedness,  or  trying  to 
improve  them,  or  any  of  the  things  you  imagine.  On 
the  contrary,  they  hate  me,  and  I  don't  think  that  I'm 
very  fond  of  them — except  that  I  suppose  one  has  a  sort 
of  affection  for  anybody  who's  brought  one  back  to  life 
again — when  one  didn't  want  to  die !" 

Henry  Matcham  broke  in :  "Tom,  look  here — upon 
my  word,  I  don't  believe  that  one  of  us  has  the  least 
idea  what  you're  talking  about." 

Tom  looked  around  at  them  all  and,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, he  was  surprised  at  the  change  in  their  faces.  The 
surprise  was  a  shock.  They  were  no  longer  regarding 
him  with  a  gaze  of  tender,  almost  proprietary,  interest. 
The  eyes  that  stared  at  his  were  almost  hostile,  at  any 


248        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

rate  suspicious,  alarmed.  Alarmed  about  what?  Pos- 
sibly his  sanity — possibly  the  misgiving  that  in  a  mc<- 
ment  he  was  going  to  do  or  aay  something  that  would 
shock  them  all. 

He  realised  as  he  looked  at  them  that  he  had  come, 
quite  unexpectedly,  upon  the  crisis  of  his  life.  They 
could  understand  it  were  he  philanthropic,  religious, 
sentimental.  They  were  prepared  for  those  thing's; 
they  had  read  novels,  they  knew  that  such  moods  did 
occur.  What  they  w^ere  not  prepared  for,  what  they 
most  certainly  would  not  stand,  was  exactly  the  explana- 
tion that  he  was  about  to  r^he  them.  That  would  insult 
them,  assault  the  very  temple  of  their  most  sacred  as- 
surances. As  he  looked  he  knew  that  if  he  now  spoke 
the  truth  he  would  for  ever  cut  himself  off  from  them. 
They  would  regard  his  case  as  hopeless.  It  would  be 
in  the  futiu-e  "Poor  Tom." 

Hie  hated  that — and  for  what  was  he  giving  them 
up?  For  the  world  that  distrusted  him,  disbelieved  in 
him,  and  would  kill  him  if  it  could.  .  .  . 

The  Rubicon  was  before  him.  He  looked  at  its 
swirling  waters,  then,  without  any  further  hesitation,  he 
crossed  it.     He  was  never  to  return  again.  .  .  . 

"I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you  all,"  he  said.  "There's 
no  sentimental  motive  behind  my  action — no  desire  to 
make  any  people  better,  nothing  fine  at  all.  It  simply 
is,  as  I've  said  already,  that  those  two  people  brought 
me  back  to  life  again.  I  don't  know  what,  except  that 
I  was  suddenly  interested  in  them.  I  didn't  like  them, 
and  they  Imted  me.  jSTow  I've  become  interested  in 
their  friends  and  relations.  I  don't  want  to  improve 


NOBODY  240 

them.  Thej  wouldn't  let  mo  if  I  did.  I  came  back 
from  France  nobody  at  all.  What  happened  there  had 
simply  killed  all  my  interest  in  life.  And — I'm  awfully 
soiTy  to  say  it — but  none  of  you  brought  my  inter^t 
back.  I  think  the  centre  of  interests  changed.  It's  as 
though'  there  were  some  animal  under  the  floor,  and 
the  part  of  the  room  that  he's  under  is  the  part  that 
you  look  at,  because  he's  restless  and  it  quivers.  Well, 
he's  shifted  his  position,  that's  all.  You  aren't  on  the 
interesting  part  of  the  floor  any  longer.  I  do  hate  to 
be  rude  and  personal — ^but  you  have  driven  me  to  it. 
All  of  you  are  getting  back  to  exactly  what  you  were 
before  the  war :  there's  almost  no  change  at  all !  And 
you're  none  of  you  interesting.  I'm  just  as  bad — but 
I  want  to  go  where  the  interesting  human  beings  are, 
and  there  are  more  in  the  dirty  streets  than  the  clean 
ones.  In  books  like  Marcelld,  years  ago  people  went 
out  of  their  own  class  because  they  wanted  to  do  %ood.' 
I  don't  want  to  do  good  to  anyone,  but  I  do  want  to  keep 
alive  now  that  I've  come  back  to  life  again.  And — 
that's  all  there  is  to  it,"  he  ended  lamelv. 

He  had  done  as  he  had  expected.  He  had  offended 
them  all  mortally.  He  was  arrogant,  proud,  super- 
cilious, and  a  little  mad.  And  they  saw,  finally,  that 
they  had  lost  him.    ISTo  more  money  for  any  of  them. 

"Well,"  said  Henry  Matcham  at  last,  "if  you  want 
to  know,  Tom,  I  think  that's  about  the  rottenest  ex- 
planation I've  ever  heard.  Of  course,  you're  covering 
something  up.  But  I'm  sure  we  don't  want  to  pene- 
trate your  secret  if  you  don't  like  us  to." 

"There  isn't  any  secret."     Tom  was  ]>eginning  to  be 


250        THE  THIKTEE]^  TRAVELLEES 

angry.  "I  tell  you  for  the  hundredth  time  I'm  not 
going  to  start  soup  kitchens,  or  found  mission  rooms,  or 
anything  like  that,  but  I  don't  want  any  more  of  these 
silly  tea-parties  or  perpetual  revues,  or — or " 

"Or  any  of  us,"  Dollie,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  angry 
colour,  broke  in.  "All  Tom's  been  trying  to  explain  to 
us  is  that  he  thinks  we're  a  dull  lot,  and  the  Bolsheviks 
in  the  slums  are  more  lively " 

"]S^o,"  Tom  broke  in;  "Dollie,  that  isn't  fair.  I 
don't  want  to  pick  and  choose  according  to  class  any 
more.  I  don't  want  to  be  an^-thing  ever  again  with  a 
name  to  it — like  a  Patriot,  or  a  Democrat,  or  a  Bol- 
shevik, or  an  Anti-Bolshevik,  or  a  Capitalist.  I'm  going 
by  Individuals  wherever  they  are.  I — Oh,  forgive  me," 
he  broke  off,  "I'm  preaching;  I  didn't  mean  to.  It's  a 
thing  I  hate.  But  it's  so  strange — you  none  of  you 
know  how  strange  it  is — ^being  dead,  so  that  you  felt 
nothing,  and  minded  nothing,  and  thought  nothing,  and 
then  suddenly  waking " 

But  they  had  had  enough.  Tommy  was  trying  to 
teach  them.    Teach  them!    And  Tommy!  .  .  . 

They  "must  be  going" — sadly,  angrily,  indignantly 
they  melted  away.  Tom  was  very  sorry:  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done. 

Only  Claribel,  taking  his  hand  for  a  moment, 
whispered : 

"It's  aU  right.  They'll  all  come  back  later.  They'll 
be  wanting  things." 

They  were  gone — all  of  them.  He  was  alone  in  his 
room.    He  drew  back  the  curtains  and  looked  down  over 


NOBODY  251 

the  grey  misty  stream  of  Duke  Street  scattered  with  the 
marigolds  of  the  evening  lights. 

He  threw  open  a  window,  and  the  roar  of  London 
came  up  to  him  like  the  rattle-rattle-rattle  of  a  weaver's 
shuttle. 

He  laughed.  He  was  happier  than  he  had  ever  been 
before.  The  whole  world  seemed  to  he  at  his  feet,  and 
he  no  longer  wished  to  judge  it,  to  improve  it,  to  dic- 
tate to  it,  to  dogmatise  it,  to  expect  great  things  of  it, 
to  be  disappointed  in  it.  .  .  . 

He  would  never  do  any  of  those  things  again. 

He  addressed  it: 

"I  did  passionately  wish  you  to  be  improved,"  he 
said,  "but  I  didn't  love  you.  Now  I  know  you  will  never 
be  improved,  but  I  love  you  dearly — all  of  you,  not  a 
bit  of  you.  Life  simply  isn't  long  enough  for  all  I'm 
going  to  see !" 


XII 

BOMBASTES  rUIlIOSQ 

THAT  year,  ]Srineteeii-!N"ineteen,  threw  up  to  the 
surface,  because  of  the  storm  and  disorder  of 
its  successive  tidal  waves,  many  strange  fish ;  and  of  all 
that  I  encountered,  the  strangest,  most  attractive,  and, 
I  venture  to  think,  the  most  typical  of  our  times  and 
their  uncertainties,  was  my  friend  Bombastes  Eurioso 
— otherwise  Benedick  Jones. 

I  should  certainly  never  have  met  him  had  it  not  been 
for  Peter  Westcott.  Westcott,  somewhere  in  the  spring 
of  i^ineteen-liineteen,  took  for  a  time  the  very  hand- 
some rooms  of  Eobsart,  the  novelist,  at  Hortons  in  Duke 
Street,  St.  James's.  It  was  strange  to  see  Peter  in 
those  over-grand,  over-lavish  rooms.  I  had  known  him 
first  in  the  old  davs  when  his  Reuben  Bollard  and 
Stone  House  had  taken  London  by  storm,  and  when 
everything  seemed  "set  fair"  for  his  future.  Then 
everything  crumbled :  his  child  died,  his  wife  ran  away 
with  his  best  friend,  and  his  books  failed.  I  didn't  hear 
of  him  again  until  JSTineteen-Fifteen,  when  somebody 
saw  him  in  France.  His  name  was  mentioned  on  sev- 
eral occasions  through  the  terrible  years,  but  nobody 
seemed  to  know  him  well.  He  kept  away,  apparently, 
from  everybody.  Then  on  the  very  day  that  the  Armi- 
stice was  signed,  I  met  him  in  the  crowd  about  White- 

252 


BOMBASTES  FURIOSO  253 

hall,  looking  just  the  same  as  in  the  old  days — a  little 
older,  a  little  stouter,  stocky  and  resolved  and  aloof  and 
observant,  in  a  world,  as  it  had  always  seemed,  to 
which  he  only  half  belonged,  a  sailor  on  leave  in  a 
country  strange,  dangerous,  and  interesting. 

But  .this  storv  is  not  about  Westcott.  To  cut  this 
prologue  short,  then,  he  asked  me  to  come  and  see  him, 
and  I  went  to  the  magnificent  Horton  rooms,  not  once, 
not  twice,  but  manv  times.  I  had  loved  Peter  in  the 
old  days.  I  loved  him  much  more  now.  The  story  of 
those  years  of  his  life  that  immediately  followed  the 
war  is  a  wonderful  story.  I  hope  that  one  day  he  will 
give  it  to  the  world;  whether  he  does  or  no,  I  saw  in 
those  summer  months  the  beginning  of  the  events  that 
were  to  lead  him  back  to  life  again,  to  give  him  happi- 
ness and  self-confidence  and  optimism  once  more,  to 
make  him  the  man  he  now  is. 

In  the  story  of  that  recovery,  Benedick  Jones  has 
his  share;  but,  I  must  repeat,  this  is  Benedick  Jones's 
story  and  not  Westcott's. 

The  first  day  that  I  saw  Jones  was  one  lovely  evening 
in  April  when  Peter's  (or  rather,  Robsart's)  sitting- 
room  was  lit  with  a  saffron-purple  glow,  and  the  clouds 
bevond  the  window  were  like  crimson  waves  ix>lling 
right  down  upon  us  across  the  pale,  glassy  sky.  In  the 
middle  of  this  splendour  Jones  stood,  a  whisky-and- 
soda  in  one  hand,  and  a  large  meerschaum  pipe  in  the 
other.  He  was,  of  course,  orating  about  something. 
The  first  thing  that  struck  me  was  his  size.  It  was 
not  only  that  he  was  well  over  six  feet  and  broad  in  pro- 
portion, but  there  seemed  to  be  in  his  large  mouth,  his 


254        THE  THIETEEN  TKAVELLEES 

great  head  with  its  untidj  mop  of  yellow  hair,  his  big, 
red  hands,  a  spiritual  size  as  well.  He  gave  one  always 
the  impression  of  having  more  fire  within  his  soul  than, 
he  could  possibly  manage.  .  .  . 

He  was  fat,  but  not  unpleasantly  so.  His  clothes 
were  comfortably  loose,  but  not  disorderly.  His  stom- 
ach was  too  prominent,  but  the  breadth  of  his  chest 
saved  him  from  unsightliness.  His  face  was  a  full 
moon,  red,  freckled,  light  yellow  eyebrows,  light  yellow, 
rather  ragged  moustache.  He  was  always  laughing — 
sometimes  when  he  was  astonished  or  indignant. 

He  was  forever  in  the  middle  of  the  room  orating 
somebody  or  something,  and  his  favourite  attitude  was 
to  stand  ^vith  his  legs  wide  apart,  a  pipe  or  a  glass  or  a 
book  in  his  extended  hand,  his  body  swaying  a  little 
with  the  rhythm  of  his  eager  talk. 

On  this  afternoon,  I  remember,  he  really  seemed  to 
fill  the  room — words  were  pouring  from  his  mouth  in  a 
torrent,  and  I  stood,  stopped  by  this  flood,  at  the  door. 
Westcott,  lying  back  in  a  leather  chair,  smoking,  lis- 
tened, a  smile  on  his  generally  grave  face,  something 
of  the  indulgent  look  in  his  eyes  that  one  might  give 
to  a  favoured  and  excited  child. 

"Hullo,  Lester!"  he  cried,  jumping  up.  "Come 
along — This  is  Captain  Jones.  Bomb,  let  me  introduce 
you  to  Mr.  Lester.  I  told  you  to  read  To  Paradise 
years  ago  in  Erance,  but  of  course  you  never  have." 

"1^0,  I  never  have,"  cried  Jones,  turning  round  upon 
me  very  suddenly,  seizing  my  hand  and  shaking  it  up 
and  down  like  the  handle  of  a  pump.  "How  do  you  do ! 
How  do  you  do!     I'm  just  delighted  to  see  you.     I 


BOMBASTES  FUKIOSO  255 

don't  read  much,  you  know.  Better  for  me  if  I  read 
more.  But  I've  got  to  take  exercise.  I'm  getting  fat." 
Then  he  wheeled  round  again.  "But,  Peter,"  he  went 
on,  suddenly  taking  a  great  draught  from  his  glass,  ''it 
was  the  most  extraordinary  thing — I  swear  it  was  just 
as  I'm- telling  you — the  girl  gave  the  man  a  look,  spat 
at  him,  and  ran  for  her  life.  There  were  three  men 
after  her  then,  one  a  vicious-looking  little  devil " 

I  sat  down  in  the  chair  nearest  to  me  and  listened. 
I  heard  a  most  astonishing  story.  I'm  afraid  that  I 
cannot  remember  at  this  distance  of  time  all  the  details 
of  it :  it  had  murder  in  it,  and  rape  and  arson  and  every 
sort  of  miraculous  escape,  and  apparently,  so  far  as  I 
could  make  it  out,  Jones  had  been  a  spectator  of  all 
that  he  described.  There  were  discrepancies  in  his  nar- 
rative, I  remember,  about  which  I  should  have  liked  to 
question  him,  but  the  words  came  out  so  fast,  and  tLe 
narrator's  own  personal  conviction  in  the  reality  of  his 
story  was  so  absolute,  that  questions  seemed  an  imper- 
tinence. He  stopped  at  last,  wiped  his  brow,  collapsed 
upon  a  chair,  finished  his  whisky  with  a  gi-eat  sucking 
smack  of  approval,  dug  his  fingers  into  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe,  struck  matches  that  were,  one  by  one,  ineffective, 
and  lay  scattered  about  him  on  the  floor,  and  then 
smiled  at  me  with  a  beaming  countenance. 

''That's  a  very  good  story.  Bomb,"  said  Peter. 

''Story !"  cried  Captain  Jones,  contemptuously. 
"That  ain't  no  story.  That's  God's  own  truth — every 
word  of  it."     He  looked  at  me  smiling  all  over  his  face. 

"I've  had  some  very  remarkable  experiences,"  he 
said. 


256        THE  THIETEE:N'  TRAVELLEKS 

"You  must  have  had,"  I  answered. 

He  did  not,  I  think,  on  this  occasion,  stay  very  long. 

When  he  had  departed  I  looked  at  Westcott  interroga- 
tively. 

"That's  a  prince  of  a  man,"  said  Peter  enthusiasti- 
cally. "I  don't  know  where  I'd  have  been  without  him 
in  France.  Everyone  loved  him  there,  and  they  were 
right." 

"What  an  experience  he  must  have  had  there,"  I  said, 
a  little  breathless. 

"Oh,  that !"  said  Peter  laughing.  "That  was  all  lie& 
from  beginning  to  end." 

"Lies!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  said  Westcott.  "He's  known  among  his 
friends  as  Bombastes  Furioso.  That's  an  unfair  name, 
really,  to  give  him,  because  he's  gentle  as  any  suckling 
dove,  and  all  his  wonderful  stories  are  about  somebody 
else's  gi'eat  deeds,  never  about  his  own.  Young  Har- 
per was  saying  the  other  day  that  if  only  he  would 
tell  of  some  of  his  stories  about  himself,  his  lies  wouldn't 
be  so  tremendous,  but  his  natural  modesty  prevents  him. 
He's  a  dear  fellow,  and  the  biggest  liar  in  Europe." 

"Well,  of  course,"  I  said,  rather  doubtfully,  "if  he 
always  tells  lies  it  isn't  so  bad.  You  know  that  you  need 
never  believe  him.  It's  the  half-and-half  liars  that  are 
so  tiresome " 

"IsTo,"  Peter  interrupted.  "That  isn't  quite  fair. 
Lies  isn't  the  true  word.  He's  all  imagination — far 
more  imagination  than  either  you  or  I  will  ever  have, 
Lester.  He  simply  can't  write  it  down.  If  he  could 
he  would  be  the  gi-eatest  novelist  of  our  time.     I  used 


BOMBASTES  FUKIOSO  257 

to  tell  him  to  try,  but  I've  given  that  up  now.  He 
can't  string  three  sentences  together.  He  can't  write 
an  ordinary  letter  without  misspelling  every  other  word. 
He  never  reads  anything — that's  why  his  imagination  is 
so  untrammelled.  And  it  isn't  all  untrue  either.  He 
has  been  all  tlie  world  over — South  Seas,  Africa,  China, 
South  America,  Russia,  anywhere  you  like.  All  sorts 
of  wonderful  things  have  happened  to  him,  but  it  isn't 
the  real  things  he  cares  to  tell  of." 

"Does  he  know  he's  lying?"  I  asked. 

"l^ot  the  least  in  the  world,"  Peter  answered,  laugh- 
ing. "And  I  fancy  he'd  be  most  indignant  if  you  ac- 
cused him  of  it.  And  the  really  strange  thing  is  that 
no  one  ever  does  accuse  him.  I  can't  remember  that  a 
single  man  in  France  ever  challenged  his  stories,  and 
they'd  pull  anyone  else  up  in  a  moment.  You  see,  he 
never  does  any  harm.  He's  the  most  generous  soul  alive, 
thinks  the  best  of  everybody,  and  all  his  stories  go  to 
prove  that  people  are  better  than  they  ever  possibly 
could  be.  I  confess,  Lester,  I  have  him  here  delib- 
erately because  he  feeds  my  imagination.  I'm  begin- 
ning to  feel  that  I  may  get  back  to  writing  again,  and 
if  I  do  it  will  be  Bomb  that  will  be  responsible." 

"How  did  he  do  in  France  ?"  I  asked. 

"Very  well,"  Peter  said.  "But  he  never  got  the 
jobs  that  he  ought  to  have  had.  Fellows  distrusted 
him  for  responsible  duty.  They  needn't  have:  he  is 
as  efBcient  as  he  can  be.  His  inventive  fancy  only 
works  over  ground  that  he's  never  covered.  In  his  own 
job  he's  an  absolute  realist." 

"Is  he  married  ?"  I  asked. 


258        THE  THIKTEEj^f  TEAVEULERS 

"Kok  I  dwtt^t  tbiiiik  tkat  wonaen  bave  mneh  use-  fear 
bim.  He  doesn't  appeal  to  them.  TWy  like  t©  hare 
ik^  stoiy-teiliiig  tiekl  to  tiiemselves.  He''s  a  naam"*  Baa» 
absolutely.  He  fciad  a  pal  iit  France  to  wbona  W  vras 
entirely  devote<i;,  and  wben  tiise  Wy  was  Hlled  I  tiiiink 
something  cracked  in  iiim  tkat's  not  Wen  mended  since. 
He's  a  colossal  sentimentalist :  cvnieism  and  iirony  make 
Itim  sick.  He  tliinks  I^m  a  desperate  cynic — so  I  am, 
perhaps  .  .  .'' 

Well,  I  saw  a  lot  of  Bomlb  Jcwaes.  He  loved  West- 
cott  more  than  I  did,  and  admired  him  firaatically.  He 
knew,  too,  sometking  abont  Westci^tt^'s.  many  troniMes;* 
and  tke  maternal  spirit  tkat  is  in  every  Englishman  and 
Scotchman  camie  ont  beaiitifnlly  in  kis  attitude  toi  kim. 
His  stories  soon  became  part  of  tke  pattern  of  oaae's  life„ 
and  by  no  means  tke  least  interesting  part.  I  <^nickljr 
imderstood  wky  it  was  tkat  kis  friends  allowed  Mm  to 
pursiie  kis  wild,  iintrammelled  way  witkont  rndely  piUiB- 
ing  kim  iipw  In  tke  first  place^  tnitk  and  fiction  wwe 
enrioiisly  mingled.  He  kad  lived  in  San  Francisco* 
for  a  number  of  years>  and  many  of  kis  tales  were 
drawn  from  tkat  romantic  city.  He  kad  dbvioas^ 
known  well  snck  men  as  Frank  iSTorris  and  Jack  LoitidoiQ,, 
and  ke  kad  been  in  tke>  place  diaring:  tke  eartkqiuake 
and  fire.  His  picture  of  Carnso  rianmiBg'  otnit  of  kis 
kotel  in  kis  night-skirt  was  a  masterly  one.  He  knew 
Russia  well,  kad  had  tea  witk  TVitte^  ia  tke  old  days> 
and  kad  once  dined  witk  Kaspcti^ijou  He  kad  shared 
in  tke  Boxer  rising^  run  for  kis  life  in  Con^tantinopfe,. 
and  kelped  a  revolution  in  Gnatemiala;  and  so  oii,  and 
so  on.  .  .  . 


BOMBASTES  FUEIOSO  259 

But  as  I  have  said,  aboiit  his  actual  experiences  he 
had  very  little  to  say.  It  was  his  fairy  stories,  his 
fantastic,  fabricated  romances,  that  gave  him  his  re- 
markable quality — and  it  was  about  London  that  these 
were  mostly  invented.  I  say  invented — but  were  they 
invented  or  no? 

There  will,  I  think,  be  more  men  and  women  than 
anyone  now  supposes  who  will  look  back  to  that  year 
Nineteen-Nineteen  in  London  as  a  strangely  fantastic 
one.  You  might  say  with  some  justice  that  the  years 
during  the  war,  with  their  air-raids  and  alarms  and 
excursions,  newspaper  rumours,  and  train-loads  of 
wounded  and  dying  at  Charing  Cross  station,  must  have 
been  infinitely  more  moving — I  think  not.  In  those 
years,  at  any  rate  the  stage  was  set  for  a  play  in  which 
we  must  all,  as  we  knew,  act  our  parts.  That  year  that 
followed  the  Armistice  was  uncanny,  uncertain,  unac- 
countable. Many  reports  there  were  about  cities  during 
war  time — none  at  all,  so  far  as  we  knew,  about  cities 
just  after  war.  London,  contrary  to  all  prophesy,  was 
just  twice  as  full  after  the  war  as  it  had  been  before 
it;  there  was  nowhere  to  live,  little  place  even  for 
sleeping.  Everyone  who  had  had  money  had  lost  it 
— many  who  had  been  notoriously  penniless  now  were 
rich.  London  was  moving  uncertainly  into  some  new 
life  whose  forlorn  form  no  one  could  foretell,  and  we 
were  all  conscious  of  this,  and  all,  perhaps,  frightened 
of  it. 

It  was  just  this  upon  which  Bomb  Jones  unwittingly 
seized.  I  say  "unwittingly,"  because  he  was  the  least 
self-conscious  of  men,  and  the  things  that  came  to  him 


260        THE  THIRTEEN"  TRAVELLEES 

arrived  without  any  deliberate  agency  on  his  part — ^his 
stories  and  anecdotes  rising  to  his  lips  as  naturally  and 
inevitably  as  the  sun  rises  above  the  hill.  He  did  not, 
I  think,  care  for  me  very  greatly :  I  was  dried  up,  des- 
iccated with  a  humour  that  he  could  only  find  morbid 
and  cynical. 

He  had  too  fine  and  open  a  nature  to  suffer  greatly 
from  jealousy,  but  I  fancy  that  he  very  much  preferred 
to  be  alone  with  Peter,  and  sighed  a  little  when  I  made 
an  appearance. 

He  very  soon  found  himself  most  happily  at  home 
with  all  the  staff  of  Hortons.  Even  Mr.  Nix,  the  sacred 
and  rubicund  head  of  the  establishment,  liked  him,  and 
listened,  wide-eyed,  to  his  stories.  Mr.  Nix  had  met 
so  many  strange  characters  in  London  and  seen  so  many 
odd  sights  that  a  story  less  or  more  did  not  affect  him 
very  deeply. 

Certainly  Captain  Jones  flung  his  net  with  greater 
success  than  was  the  general  rule;  never  a  day  passed 
but  he  returned  with  some  strange  prize. 

It  was  amusing  to  see  them  together  in  the  green  hall 
downstairs,  with  the  grandfather  clock  ticking  away  at 
them  sarcastically.  The  little  man,  round  as  a  ball, 
neat  and  dapper,  efficient,  his  bowler  hat  a  little  on  one 
side  of  his  head ;  Jones,  his  gi'eat  legs  apart,  his  red  face 
ablaze  with  excitement,  his  large  hands  gesticulating. 
They  were  great  friends. 

In  spite  of  his  withdrawal  from  me,  he  continued  to 
tell  me  his  stories.  I  began  to  find  it  an  amusing  game 
to  divide  the  true  from  the  false.  This  was  a  difficult 
task,  because  he  had  a  great  love  of  circumstantial  de- 


BOMBASTES  FURIOSO  261 

tail.  He  would  begin — "Lester,  wbat  do  you  think  of 
this?  An  hour  ago  I  was  going  down  John  Sti-eet, 
Adelphi.  You  know  the  place  behind  the  Strand  there 
where  the  Little  Theatre  used  to  be.  You  know  there's 
an  alley  there  cutting  up  into  the  Strand.  They  sell 
fruit  there.  "Well,  I  was  just  climbing  the  steps  when 
I  heard  a  woman's  voice  cry  out  for  help.  I  looked 
back;  there  was  not  a  soul  there^ — the  street  was  as 
empty  as  your  hand.  I  heard  the  cry  again,  and  there 
was  a  woman's  face  at  the  open  window.  As  I  looked 
she  vanished.     I  ran  back  to  the  door  of  the  house " 

I^ow  this  may  appear  somewhat  commonplace.  How 
many  stories  in  how  many  magazines  have  begun  with 
just  such  an  incident?  This,  you  would  say,  is  the 
cheapest  invention.  'Not  quite.  Jones  had  always  some 
unexpected  circumstantial  detail  that  clamped  his  tale 
down  as  his  own.  I  think  that  he  was,  in  reality,  on 
certain  occasions  involved  in  fights  and  quarrels  that 
were  actual  enough.  I  have  seen  him  with  a  black 
eye,  and  again  with  a  long  scratch  down  his  cheek,  and 
once  with  a  torn  hand.  But  what  he  did  was  to  create 
behind  him  a  completely  new  vision  of  the  London  scene. 
One  could  not  listen  to  his  stories  for  long  without  see- 
ing London  coloured,  blazing  with  light,  sinister  with 
calculated  darkness,  ringed  about  with  gigantic  build- 
ings that  capped  the  clouds,  inhabited  by  beings  half 
human,  half  magical,  half  angel,  half  beast. 

I  remember  when  I  was  young  and  credulous,  getting 
something  of  this  impression  from  The  New  Arabian 
Nights,  but  for  me,  at  any  rate,  Stevenson  never  quite 
joined  the  flats.     I  was  never  finally  taken  in  by  his 


262        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

invention,  but  felt  to  the  last  that  he  was  having  a 
game  with  me.  Bomb  Jones's  eloquence  had  the  ad- 
vantage over  the  written  word  of  being  direct  and  per- 
sonal. Although  you  might  be  sure  that  what  he  was 
telling  you  was  not  true,  nevertheless  you  felt  that  be- 
hind his  stories  some  facts  must  be  lying.  I  know  that 
soon  I  began  to  discover  that  London  was  changing 
under  my  eyes.  My  own  drab  and  dull  flat  in  Ken- 
sington took  a  romantic  glow.  I  would  look  from  my 
window  down  the  long  street  to  the  far  distance  filled 
by  the  solemn  blocks  of  the  museum,  and  would  imagine 
that  the  figures  that  crossed  the  grey  spaces  were  busied 
on  errands  about  which  fates  of  empires  might  hang — 
ludicrous  for  a  man  of  my  age  who  might  be  said  to 
have  experienced  all  the  disillusionment  of  life.  Well, 
ludicrous  or  no,  I  walked  the  streets  with  a  new  observa- 
tion, a  new  expectation,  a  new  pleasure,  and  to  Bomb 
Jones  I  owed  it. 

However,  it  is  not  of  his  effect  on  myself  that  I  want 
to  speak.  I  was  too  far  gone  for  any  very  permanent 
revival.  It  was  Jones's  effect  on  Peter  that  was  the 
important  thing.  I  saw  that  a  new  life,  a  new  interest, 
a  new  eagerness  was  coming  into  Peter's  life.  He 
laughed  at  Jones,  but  he  liked  him  and  listened  to  him. 
Gradually,  slowly,  as  stealthily  as,  after  the  rains,  the 
water  creeps  back  over  the  dry  bed  of  the  sun-baked 
river,  so  did  Peter's  desire  for  life  come  back  to  him. 

"I  know  that  Bomb's  stories  are  all  nonsense,"  he 
said  to  me.  "A  hundred  times  a  day  I'm  tempted  to 
break  out  and  ask  him  how  he  dares  to  put  such  stuff 
over  on  us,  but,  after  all,  there  may  be  something  in  it 


BOMBASTES  FUEIOSO  263 

Do  you  know,  Lester,  I  can't  go  through  Leicester 
Square  without  wondering  whether  a  murderer  isn't 
coming  out  of  the  Turkish  Baths,  an  Eastern  Prince 
out  of  'Thurston's,'  or  the  Queen  of  the  Genii  peeping 
at  me  from  a  window  of  the  Alhambra !  I've  tried  sev- 
eral times  to  get  back  into  things  here.  I  tried  the 
Vers  Librists,  and  I  tried  the  drunkards  down  in 
Adelphi,  and  I've  tried  the  Solemn  Ones  up  in  Hamp- 
stead,  and  the  good  commonplace  ones  in  Kensington, 
and  it  was  all  no  use  until  Bomb  came  along.  I  hope 
to  Heaven  he  won't  stop  his  stories  for  another  month 
or  two.  There's  a  book  beginning  to  move  in  my  head 
— again,  after  ten  years!  Just  think  of  it,  Lester! 
Dead  for  ten  years — I  never  thought  it  would  come  back, 
and  now  Bomb  and  his  stories " 

"It's  all  right,"  I  said.  "He'll  never  stop  till  he 
dies." 

But  I'd  reckoned  without  one  thing — something  that 
had  never  entered  my  poor  brain,  and,  as  always  happens 
in  life,  it  was  the  one  thing  that  occurred — Bomb  fell 
in  love. 

It  is,  of  course,  a  commonplace  that  you  can  never 
discover  the  reasons  that  drive  human  beings  towards 
one  another — even  the  good  old  law  of  the  universal 
attraction  of  opposite  for  opposite  does  not  always  hold 
good,  but  I  may  say  that  both  Peter  and  I  had  the  sur- 
prise of  our  lives  when  we  discovered  that  Bomb  Jones 
cared  for  Helen  Gather.  Helen  was  a  friend  of  Bobby 
Galleon's,  who  was  a  friend  of  Peter's.  Alice  Galleon, 
Bobby's  wife,  had  been  with  her  on  some  War  Commit- 
tee, and  the  orderliness  of  her  mind,  her  quiet  when 


264        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

the  other  women  were  pushing  and  quarrelling,  her  clean 
serenity  upon  which  nothing,  however  violent,  seemed 
to  make  the  slightest  stain,  appealed  to  Alice.  She 
took  Helen  home  to  dinner,  and  discovered  that  she  was 
a  very  well-read,  politically-minded,  balanced  woman. 
''Too  blamed  balanced  for  me,"  said  Bobby,  who  be- 
lieved in  spontaneity  and  rash  mistakes  and  good  red 
blood.  He  thought,  however,  that  she  would  be  good 
for  Peter,  so  he  took  her  to  see  him.  Helen  and  Peter 
made  friends,  and  this  in  itself  was  odd,  because  Hielen 
at  once  asserted  that  all  Peter's  ideas  about  modern 
literature  were  wrong.  She  said  that  Peter  was  a 
Romantic,  and  that  to  be  a  Romantic  in  these  days  was 
worse  than  being  dead.  She  talked  in  her  calm,  in- 
cisive, clear-cut  way  about  the  Novel,  and  said  that  the 
only  thing  for  any  novelist  to  do  to-day  was  to  tell  the 
truth;  and  when  Peter  asked  her  whether  invention 
and  imagination  were  to  go  for  nothing,  she  said  that 
they  went  for  very  little,  because  we'd  got  past  them 
and  grownltoo  old  for  them ;  and  Peter  said  thank  God 
he  hadn't  and  never  would,  and  he  talked  about  Steven- 
son and  Dumas  until  Helen  was  sick. 

She  dug  up  Peter's  poor  old  novels,  and  disembowelled 
their  corpses  and  praised  Miss  Somebody  or  other 
Smith's  who  wrote  only  about  what  it  felt  like  to  be 
out  of  a  job  on  a  wet  day  when  you  had  only  enough 
money  in  your  pocket  to  eat  a  boiled  egg  in  an  A.B.C. 
shop. 

"You're  sentimental,  Westcott,"  she  said,  "and  you're 
sloppy  and  w^orst  of  all,  you're  sprightly.  You've  no 
artistic  conscience  at  all." 


BOMBASTES  FURIOSO  265 

Peter  laughed  at  her  and  liked  her,  and  she  liked 
him.  I  don't  think  that  I  was  at  all  taken  with  my 
first  view  of  her.  She  was  thin  and  pale,  with  pince-nez 
and  a  very  faint  moustache  on  her  upper  lip.  Her  best 
feature  was  her  eyes,  which  were  good,  gTey,  stxsady, 
kindly,-  and  even  at  times  they  twinkled.  She  was 
neatness  and  tidiness  itself,  and  she  sat  in  her  chair, 
quite  still,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap,  and  her  neat 
little  shoes  crossed  obstinately  in  fmnt  of  her. 

I  shall  never,  of  course,  forget  the  day  when  she  first 
met  Bomb.  It  was  one  evening  in  Peter's  flat.  A 
number  of  people  sat  about  talking,  smoking  and  drink- 
ing. The  Galleons  were  there,  Mai-adick,  large  and 
red-faced,  an  old  friend  of  Peter's,  Robin  Trojan  and 
his  wife,  and  so  on.  Bomb  was  late.  He  burst  into 
the  room,  large,  untidy  and,  as  usual,  excited. 

"I  say,"  he  began  at  once.  ^'I've  just  come  from 
Penter's.  There's  been  a  fellow  there  who's  the  most 
remarkable  man  I've  ever  seen.  He^s  going  round 
England  with  a  circus,  and  three  of  his  elephants  es- 
caped this  afternoon  and  were  found  examining  Cleo- 
patra's ^Needle  half  an  hour  ago  and  being  fed  with 
buns  by  a  lot  of  sti-eet  boys.  This  chap  wasn't  a  bit 
alarmed,  and  said  they'd  be  sure  to  turn  up  at  Howar- 
ton  or  somewhere  where  he's  got  his  circus,  if  he  gave 
them  time.  He  says  that  one  of  the  elephants  is  the 
most  intelligent " 

'Now  this  story  happened,  as  w©  discovered  in  the 
morning,  to  be  quite,  or  almost,  tnie,  but  you  can  fancy 
how  Helen  Gather  was  struck  with  it 

'^Elephants !"  she  said,  turning  round  upon  him. 


266        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLEES 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  one  another,"  said  Peter,  has- 
tily. "Bomb,  this  is  Miss  Gather.  Miss  Gather — 
Gaptain  Jones." 

Bomb  has  since  declared  that  he  fell  in  love  with 
his  Helen  at  first  sight.  Why  ?  I  can't  conceive. 
There  was  nothing  romantic  about  her.  She  certainly 
looked  upon  him  on  that  first  occasion  with  eyes  of 
extreme  disapproval.  Everything  about  him  must  have 
seemed  dreadful  to  her.  "A  red-hot  liar,"  she  described 
him  to  Alice  Galleon  afterwards.  I  remember  on  that 
very  evening  wishing  that  he  had  stopped  for  a  moment 
before  he  came  into  the  room  and  tidied  himself  up  a 
little.  His  hair  wasn't  brushed,  his  face  was  hot  and 
perspiring,  his  waistcoat  was  minus  a  button,  and  his 
boots  were  soiled.  He  didn't  care,  of  course,  but  sat 
down  quite  close  to  Miss  Gather,  smiled  upon  her,  and 
poured  into  her  ears  all  that  evening  a  remarkable 
series  of  narratives,  each  one  more  tremendous  than  the 
last. 

Peter  was  amused.  ISText  day  he  said:  "Wasn't  it 
fun  seeing  Helen  Gather  and  Bomb  together  ?  Fire 
and  water.  She  thought  he'd  drunk  too  much,  I  pre- 
sume.    She  can  look  chilly  when  she  likes,  too." 

It  was  not  more  than  three  days  after  this  eventful 
meeting  that  the  gTcat  surprise  was  sprung  upon 
me. 

I  had  been  given  two  tickets  for  the  first  night  of 
Arnold  Bennett's  Judith.  We  arrived  late,  and  it  was 
not  until  the  first  interval  that  Peter  could  deliver 
to  me  his  astounding  news. 

"What  do  you  think  has  happened?"  he  cried.     "I 


BOMBASTES  EUEIOSO  267 

give  you  three  guesses,  but  you  may  as  well  resign  at 
once.     If  I  gave  you  a  hundred,  you'd  never  guess;" 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"Bomb  is  in  love  with  Helen  Gather." 

I  was,  of  course,  incredulous. 

"But  that's  absurd,"  I  answered ;  "that's  worse  than 
any  of  Bomb's  best  stories." 

"It's  true,  all  the  same,"  he  assured  me.  "He  came 
in  this  afternoon.  He  can  think  of  nothing  else.  His 
stories  have  for  the  moment  all  deserted  him.  He  told 
me  that  he's  been  awake  three  nights  thinking  of  her. 
He  says  that  he  loved  her  the  first  moment  he  saw  her. 
He  says  that  he's  never  loved  a  woman  before,  which  is, 
I  expect,  true  enough,  and  that  he's  going  to  marry 
her." 

"Well,  that  last  isn't  true,  anyway,"  I  answered. 
"Miss  Gather  hated  him  at  first  sight." 

My  impression  that  night  was  that  this  was  simply 
one  of  Bomb's  exuberant,  romantic  fancies,  and  that  it 
would  pass  away  from  his  heart  and  brain  as  quickly 
as  many  of  his  stories  had  done.  I  was,  of  course, 
completely  wrong. 

He  said  very  little  about  it  to  me,  because  he  didn't 
like  me,  and  was  less  naturally  himself  with  me,  I  think, 
than  with  anyone.  But  he  talked  to  everyone  else, 
and  to  Peter  he  never  ceased  pouring  out  his  soul. 

A  week  later  he  proposed  to  her.  She  refused  him, 
of  course.  He  was  not  in  the  least  disturbed.  He 
would  propose  to  her  again  very  shortly,  and  then  again 
and  again  to  the  end  of  time.  .  .  . 


/ 


268        THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

I  fancied,  however,  that  that  first  refusal  would  be 
the  end  of  it. 

He  would  see  in  a  little  how  absurd  his  pursuit  was, 
and  would  abandon  it.  I  must  confess  that  I  looked 
forward  to  that  abandonment.  This  sudden  passion 
had  not  from  my  point  of  view,  improved  him.  It 
made  him  a  little  absurd,  and  it  had  checked  absolutely 
for  the  moment  the  flow  of  his  stories.  I  was  surprised 
to  find  how  seriously  I  missed  them. 

Then  one  morning  my  telephone  rang,  and,  answering 
it,  I  recognised  Miss  Gather's  voice. 

"May  I  come  and  have  tea  with  you  this  afternoon  ?" 
she  asked. 

"Why,  of  course,"  I  answered.  "I'll  be  delighted. 
Whom  shall  I  invite  ?" 

"Nobody,"  she  answered.     "I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

I  was  flattered  and  pleased.     Any  widower  of  over     _ 
fifty  is  pleased  when  any  woman  wants  to  come  and  /'' 
have  tea  with  him  alone.     Besides,  I  liked  Miss  Gather' 
— liked  her  surprisingly.     In  the  first  place,  she  liked 
me,  found  my  mind  "truly  realistic"  and  my  brain  well 
balanced.     But  in  reality  I  liked  her,  I  think,  because 
I  was  beginning  to  discover  in  her  a  certain  freshness 
and  childishness  and  even  naivete  of  soul  which  I  had 
certainly  not  expected  at  first.     But  seriousness  and 
balance  and  austerity  of  manner  did  not  go  nearly  as 
deep  as  it  pretended.     She  knew  not  nearly  as  much 
about  life  as  she  herself  fancied. 

When  she  came  she  had  some  difficulty  in  beginning. 
At  last  it  was  out.  Gaptain  Jones  had  proposed  to  her. 
Of  course,  it  was  quite  absurd,  and  of  course,  she  had 


BOMBASTES  rUKIOSO  269 

refused  hinL  He  didn't  know  her  at  all,  and  she  knew 
quite  enough  about  Mm  to  be  sure  that  they  would  never 
get  on.  Nevertheless — nevertheless — What  did  I — did 
I  know  ? — ^At  least,  what  she  meant  was  that  she  liked 
Captain  Jones,  had  liked  him  from  the  beginning,  but 
there  were  certain  things  about  him  that  puzzled  her 
— Now  I  knew  him  well.     Would  I  tell  her  ? 

*^I  don't  know  him  well,"  I  inteiTupted  her.  "That's 
a  mistake — we're  not  intim^ate  at  all,  but  I  do  know 
him  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  he's  a  good  man.  He's 
a  splendid  man!"  I  ended  with  perhaps  a  little  more 
enthusiasm  than  I  had  myself  expected. 

She  talked  a  little  more,  and  then  I  challenged  her. 

"The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  Miss  Gather,"  I  said, 
"that  you're  in  love  with  him  and  intend  to  marry  him." 

At  this  she  shook  her  head  indignantly.  No,  that 
was  not  true  at  all.  She  did  not  love  him — of  course 
she  did  not.  But  there  was  something  about  him — dif- 
ficult for  her  to  describe — his  childishness,  his  simplic- 
ity— ^he  needed  looking  after — Oh,  he  did  need  looking 
after ! 

As  she  said  that  the  whole  of  the  sweetness  that  waa 
in  her  nature  shone  in  her  eyes  and  made  her  austere, 
unyielding,  almost  plain  as  she  was,  for  the  moment 
divine. 

"Of  course  you're  going  to  marry  him,"  I  repeated. 
She  shook  her  head,  but  this  time  less  surely. 

Then,  looking  me  full  in  the  face,  and  speaking  with 
great  solemnity  as  though  she  were  uttering  a  profound 
and  supremely  important  tnith,  she  remarked: 


270        THE  THIRTEEN  TEAVELLEES 

"Any  woman  wlio  did  marry  him  would  have  to  stop 
that  lying." 

"Lying!"  I  repeated  feehly. 

"Yes,  lying — the  stories  he  tells." 

"But  they  aren't  lies/'  I  said.  "At  least,  not 
exactly." 

She  emptied  then  all  the  vials  of  her  wrath  upon  my 
Lead.  'Not  lies?  And  what  were  they  then?  What 
were  those  romances  if  they  were  not  lies  ?  Was  I  try- 
ing to  defend  lies  in  general  or  only  Captain  Jones's 
lies  in  particular  ?  Did  I  not  realise  the  harm'  that  he 
did  with  his  stories  ?  What  had  we  all  been  about  that 
we  had  not  pulled  him  up  long  ago  ? 

"Can't  you  conceive  it  as  possible,  Miss  Cather,"  I 
asked  her,  "that  lies  should  occasionally  do  good  rather 
than  harm?  I  don't  mean  really  had  lies,  of  course 
— ^lies  told  to  hurt  people — but  gorgeous  lies,  magnifi- 
cent lies;  lies  that  keep  your  sense  of  fantasy,  your 
imagination  alive;  lies  that  paint  your  house  a  fairy 
palace  and  your  wife  a  goddess?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Mr.  Lester," 
she  answered  me.  "I  must  confess  I'm  disappointed 
in  you,  but  I  suppose  one  never  knows  with  a  novelist 
— But  never  mind — thank  you  for  your  tea — I  can 
only  assure  you  that  any  woman  who  marries  Captain 
Jones  will  have  to  reform  him  first.     Good-night." 

Even  after  this  I  did  not  realise  the  situation  that 
was  upon  us.  I  saw  now  what  I  had  not  seen  before, 
that  she  did,  in  truth,  care  for  Bomb  Jones — that  that 
same  affection  would  affect  all  our  lives  I  had  not  yet 


BOMBASTES  FURIOSO  271 

perceived.  Then,  two  days  later,  came  the  next  devel- 
opment. 

I  was  sitting  in  Peter's  flat  waiting  for  his  return, 
when  Bomb  burst  in.  He  was  a  creature  transfigured, 
whether  by  triumph  or  rage  I  could  not  immediately 
tell.  He  stood  there,  out  of  breath,  swelling  out  his 
chest,  struggling  for  words,  panting.  At  last  they 
came. 

"Where's  Peter?  Oh,  where  s  Peter?  N'ot  back. 
But  he  must  be  back.  It's  alwavs  his  time  to  be  here 
just  now.  He  must  be  here  !  Lester,  I'm  dumfounded. 
I've  no  strength  left  in  me.  I'm  finished.  What  do 
you  think?  Oh,  but  you'll  never  guess — ^you 
couldn't " 

"Miss  Gather's  accepted  you,"  I  interrupted. 

"How  did  you   know  ?     How  the  devil "     He 

stared  at  me  as  though  his  eyes  were  struggling  with  an 
unaccustomed  light — "Well,  she  has,  if  you  want  to 
know,  and  that's  remarkable  enough,  but  that's  not  the 
only  thing — She — she " 

He  paused,  then  flung  it  at  me  with  the  strangest 
burst  of  mingled  rage,  incredulity,  bewilderment,  and 
wonder — "She  says  I'm  a  liar!" 

He  looked  at  me,  waiting. 

"A  liar  ?"  I  feebly  repeated. 

"A  liar !  She  says  she'll  only  marry  me  on  one  condi- 
tion— that  I  stop  my  lying.  When  she  first  said  it  I 
thought  she  was  laughing  at  me,  then  I  suddenly  saw 
that  she  was  in  the  deadliest  earnest.  I  asked  her  what 
she  meant.  She  said  that  she  couldn't  conceive  that  I 
didn't  know,  that  I  must  know,  how  wicked  it  was  to 


272         THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

tell  the  untruthful  stories  that  I  did,  the  harm  that  they 
worked  and  so  on.  I !  A  liar !  I ! — Why,  you  might 
say  it  about  some  fellows,  but  about  me!  .  .  .  Why, 
Lester,  she  simply  didn't  believe  that  I'd  had  any  of 
the  fun,  been  to  any  of  the  places,  seen  anything.  .  .  . 
Of  course,  I  see  what  it  is.  She's  never  been  anywhere, 
seen  anything  herself.  Everything's  strange  to  her. 
But  to  say  that  everyone  Jciiew  I  was  a  liar.  .  .  .  Les- 
ter, tell  me.  You've  been  about.  You  know  I'm  not 
a  liar,  don't  you?" 

His  astonishment  was  the  most  genuine  thing  I'd 
ever  faced.  I  admit  that  I  was  staggered  by  it.  I 
had  not,  of  course,  supposed  that  he  had  deliberately 
said  to  himself:  "N'ow  to-day  I'm  going  to  tell  a  lie 
so  as  to  astonish  those  fellows,"  but  I  Imd  imagined 
that  he  knew  quit«  well  it  had  not  all  been  true. 

But  here,  in  the  face  of  his  most  ingenuous  astonish- 
m.ent,  what  was  I  to  say? 

"No,  Jones,  of  course  not — lies  is  the  wrong  word 
altogether,  but  I  do  think  that  sometimes  you've  exag- 
gerated." 

He  stared  at  me. 

"Do  they  all  think  that?" 

"Well,  yes,  they  do " 

He  resembled  then  nothing  so  much  as  a  balloon  from 
which  the  air  has  suddenly  been  withdrawn.  He  sat 
down. 

"My  God,"  he  said,  suddenly  dropping  his  head  be- 
tween his  great  red  hands,     "It's  true  then." 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  I  saw  the  catastrophe 
that  was  upon  us.     I  saw  what  Bomb  would  be  without 


BOMBASTES  FURIOSO  273 

his  tales:  he  would  be  dull,  ordinary,  colourless — noth- 
ing. The  salient  thing,  the  life,  the  salt,  the  savour 
would  bo  withdrawn  from  him.  And  not  only  Bomb, 
but  all  of  us — myself,  Peter,  young  Gale,  Alice  Galleon, 
even  Maradick.  I  saw,  by  my  own  experience,  how  we 
should  -suffer.  I  saw  slipping  away  from  under  my 
very  nose  the  whole  of  that  magical  world  that  Bomb 
had  created;  and  above  all,  that  magical  London,  the 
fairy  palaces,  the  streets  paved  with  gold,  the  walls  of 
amethyst;  the  dark,  shuttered  windows  opened  for  an 
instant  to  betray  the  gleaming,  anxious  eyes ;  the  bearded 
foreigner  conveying  his  sacred  charge  through  the  traf- 
fic of  Trafalgar  Square;  the  secrets  and  mysteries  of  the 
Bond  Street  jewellers.  ...  I  saw  all  that  and  more. 
But,  after  all,  that  was  not  the  heart  of  the  matter.  We 
could  get  on  without  our  entertainment ;  even  Peter 
had  been  brought  to  life  again  whether  Bomb  went  on 
with  him  or  no.  The  tragedy  was  in  Bomb's  own  soul ; 
Helen  Gather  was  slaying  him  as  surely  as  though  she 
stuck  a  dagger  into  his  heart.  And  she  did  not  know  it — 
She  did  not  know  that  she  was  probably  marrying  him 
for  that  very  energy  of  imagination  that  she  was  bent 
upon  destroying.  Only,  months  after  she  had  married 
him,  she  would  discover,  with  a  heavy  and  lifeless  Bomb 
upon  her  hands,  what  it  was  that  she  had  done. 

"Look  here,  Jones,"  I  said.  "Don't  take  it  too  se- 
riously. Miss  Gather  didn't  know  what  she  was  saying. 
Don't  you  promise  her  anything.     She'll  forget " 

"Don't  promise  her!"     He  looked  up  at  me  wildly. 
"I  have  promised  her!     Of  course  I  have — ^Don't  I 
love  her  ?     Didn't  I  love  her  the  first  moment  that  I  saw 


274         THE  THIRTEEN  TRAVELLERS 

her?     I'm  never  going  to  tell  anyone  about  anything 
again." 

Well,  all  my  worst  anticipations  were  at  once  fulfilled. 
You  may  think  that  this  story  is  ahout  a  very  small 
affair,  but  I  ask  you  to  take  some  friend  of  yours  and 
be  aware  that  he  is  in  process,  before  your  eyes,  of  dying 
from  some  slow  poison  skilfully  administered  by  some^ 
one.     You  may  not  in  the  beginning  have  cared  very   { 
greatly  for  the  man,  but  the  poignancy  of  the  drama   j 
is  such  that  before  long  you  are  drawn  into  the  very  j 
heart  of  it ;  it  is  like  a  familiar  nightmare ;  you  are  held  ( 
there  paralysed,  longing  to  rush  in  and  prevent  the  mur-   ' 
der  and  unable  to  move. 

In  no  time  at  all  I  had  developed  quite  an  affection 
for  Jones,  so  pathetic  a  figure  was  he. 

Beneath  the  stern  gaze  of  his  beloved  Helen  ("not 
quite  of  Troy,"  as  someone  said  of  her)  he  became  a 
commonplace,  dull,  negligible  creature,  duller,  save  for 
the  pathos  of  his  position,  than  human.  Very  quickly 
we  lost  any  sense  of  chagrin  or  disappointment  at  our 
own  penalties  in  the  absorption  of  "longing  to  do  some- 
thing for  Bomb."  Again  and  again  we  discussed  the 
affair.  Bomb's  soul  must  be  saved ;  but  how  ?  Before 
our  eyes  a  tragedy  was  developing.  In  another  month 
they  would  be  married ;  Helen  Gather  would  marry  the 
greatest  bore  in  Europe,  and  about  six  months  after 
marriage  would  discover  that  she  had  done  so. 

Bomb  was  already  miserable,  sitting  there  silent  and 
morose,  his  tongue  tied,  adoring  Helen,  but  saying  noth- 
ing to  her  lest  he  should  be  accused  of  "romancing." 

At  last  Peter  insisted  that  I  should  speak  to  her — 


BOMBASTES  FUEIOSO  275 

slie  liked  me  better  than  she  did  tlie  others — she  would 
listen  to  me.  iN'eedless  to  say,  she  did  not.  Not  only 
did  she  not  listen,  but  turned  on  me  ferociously. 

"I'm  proud  of  Benedick!"  she  cried.  "I've  cured 
him  of  the  only  fault  he  had.  If  you  think  I'm  going 
to  turn,  him  back  into  a  liar  again,  Mr.  Lester,  just 
for  the  entertainment  of  yourself  and  your  friends, 
you're  greatly  mistaken.  You  have  a  strange  notion 
of  morality." 

She  was  proud,  but  she  was  uneasy.  She  realised 
that  he  was  not  happy,  that,  in  one  way  or  another, 
the  spring  had  gone  out  of  him — yes,  thank  God,  she 
■^as  uneasy. 

Well,  there  was  the  situation.  There  was  apparently 
nothing  to  be  done,  no  way  out.  This  is  simply  the 
story,  after  all,  of  our  blindness.  Just  as  we  had  not 
seen  the  influence  that  was  to  check  our  Bomb,  so  we 
did  not  see  the  influence  that  would  make  his  fancy 
flow  again.     It's  a  wonderful  world,  thank  God! 

About  a  week  before  the  wedding  Peter  Westcott  said 
to  me: 

"Lester,  don't  you  think  that  Bomb's  reviving  a  little 
again  ?"  I  fancied  I  had  seen  soraething.  Bomb  was 
a  little  brighter,  a  little  less  heavy  .  .  ,  yes,  I  liad 
noticed. 

"His  fancy  is  being  fed  again  somewhere,"  said  Peter 
again.     "Where?     He  tells  us  no  stories." 

1^0,  he  certainly  did  not.  His  determination  to 
achieve  perfect  accuracy  was  painful.  It  was  a  case 
of 

"Where  have  you  been,  Bomb  I" 


276         THE  THIRTEEiq-  TRAVELLERS 

"Oh,  just  down  to  tlie  bank  to  cash  a  cheque.  The 
Joint  Stock  branch  in  Wiginore  Street.     I  took  a  bus 

up  Regent  Street  and  got  off  at  the  Circus "  and  so 

on,  and  so  on. 

^Nevertheless,  he  was  reviving.  The  Old  Man  was 
being  blown  back  into  him  just  as  surely  as  one  prick  of 
Helen  Gather's  determination  had  let  it  out  Where 
was  he  feeding  his  imagination?  How  had  he  got 
round  his  Helen's  autocracy  without  her  knowing  it? 
Because  she  did  not  know.  She  was  completely  satis- 
fied— she  was  even  more  than  satisfied,  she  was I 

watched  her.  Something  was  happening  to  her,  too. 
She  was  dressing  differently.  Her  austerity  was  drop- 
ping from  her.  She  did  her  hair  in  a  new  way,  no 
longer  pulling  it  back,  harsh  and  austere,  from  her 
forehead,  but  letting  it  have  freedom  and  colour.  She 
had  very  pretty  hair.  .  .  . 

She  was  wearing  bright  colours  and  pretty  hats.  .  .  . 

What  was  happening  ? 

The  day  came  when  the  problem  was  solved.  Bomb's 
old  mother  came  up  to  town,  a  dear  old  lady  of  nearly 
eighty,  who  adored  Bomb'and  thought  him  perfection. 
She  came  up  for  the  wedding.  She  was  to  see  Helen 
for  the  first  time.  It  was  agi-eed  that  the  meeting 
should  be  at  Hortons,  a  nice,  central  spot.  We  were 
gathered  there  waiting — old  Mrs.  Jones  with  her  lace 
cap  and  bright  pink  cheeks,  Peter,  Bomb,  and  myself. 
Helen  was  late. 

"You  know.  Benedick,"  said  the  old  lady  in  a  voice 
like  a  withering  canaiy,  "you've  told  me  very  little 
about  Helen.     I've  «io  real  idea  of  her  at  all." 


BOMBASTES  FUEIOSO  277 

A  moment's  pause,  and  Bomb  had  sprung  to  his  feet. 
Peter  and  I,  spiritually,  so  to  speak,  rushed  towards 
one  another.  This  was  the  old  attitude.  We  had  not 
seen  Bomb  stand  like  this,  his  legs  spread  apart,  his 
chest  out,  his  eyes  flashing,  for  weeks.  The  old  atti- 
tude, the  old  voice,  the  old  Bomb. 

"Helen,  mother!"  he  cried,  and  he  was  off. 

The  picture  that  he  drew!  It  was  about  as  much 
like  the  real  Helen  Gather  as  the  Venus  de  Milo  is 
like  Miss  Mary  Pickford  in  the  pictures ;  but  it  was  a 
glorious  picture,  the  portrait  of  a  goddess,  a  genius,  a 
Sappho.  The  phrases  tumbled  from  his  lips  in  the 
good  old  way — it  was  all  the  old  times  come  back  again. 
And  how  his  imagination  worked !  How  magnificently 
he  flung  his  colours  about,  with  what  abandon  he 
splashed  and  sprawled!  For  a  breathless  ten  minutes 
we  listened. 

"Dear  me,"  said  old  Mrs.  Jones,  "I  do  hope  she's  a 
good  girl  as  well." 

For  myself  I  sat  there  entranced.  The  old  Bomb  was 
not  lost.  He  had  found,  or  Fate  had  found  him,  a 
safe  outlet  after  all.  He  could  see  Helen  as  before  he 
had  seen  the  whole  world,  and  it  would  do  for  him  as 
well.     His  soul  was  saved. 

The  one  question  that  now  remained  was  how  would 
Helen  take  this  glorification  of  herself?  Would  she 
not  resent  it  as  deeply  as  she  had  resented  the  earlier 
"Hes"  ? 

On  the  answer  to  that  question  hung  the  whole  of 
the  future  of  their  married  life. 

I  was  soon  to  have  my  answer.     Helen  came  in.     I 


278         THE  THIETEEN  TRAVELLERS 

did  not  perceive  that  old  Mrs.  Jones  felt  very  deeply 
the  contrast  between  reality  and  her  son's  picture.  Her 
son  was  all  that  she  saw. 

He  took  her  home.  I  walked  away  with  Helen.  Be- 
fore we  parted  she  turned  to  me.  Happiness  was 
burning  in  her  face. 

"Mr.  Lester,"  she  said,  "youVe  been  a  good  friend 
to  both  of  us.  You  were  all  wrong  about  Benedick, 
but  I  know  that  you  meant  it  well."  She  hesitated  a 
little.  "I'm  terribly  happy,  almost  too  happy  to  be  safe. 
Of  course,  I  know  that  Benedick  is  a  little  absurd  about 
me,  has  rather  an  exaggerated  idea  of  me.  But  that's 
good  for  me,  really  it  is.  Nobody  ever  has  before,  you 
know,  and  it's  only  Benedick  who's  seen  what  I  really 
am.  I  knew  that  I  had  all  sorts  of  things  in  me  that 
ought  to  come  out,  but  no  one  encouraged  them.  Every- 
one lausihed  at  them.  But  Benedick  has  seen  them, 
and  I'm  going  to  be  what  he  sees  me.  I  feel  free! 
Free  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  You  don't  know 
how  wonderful  that  is !" 

She  pulled  the  bright  purple  scarf  more  closely  over 
her  shoulders. 

"We've  done  something  for  one  another,  he  and  I, 
really,  haven't  we?  He's  freed  me,  and  I — well,  I've 
stopped  those  terrible  untruths  of  his  in  spite  of  you  all. 
I  don't  believe  he'll  ever  tell  a  lie  again !  Good-night. 
"We'll  see  lots  of  you  after  we're  married,  won't  we? 
Oh,  we're  going  to  be  so  happy " 

"Yes — now  I  believe  you  are,"  I  answered. 

"What  do  you  mean,  now?"  she  asked.  "Didn't  you 
always  think  so  ?" 


BOMBASTES  FUEIOSO  279 

"There  was  a  moment  when  I  wasn't  sure,"  I  said. 
"But  I  was  wrong.     You're  going  to  be  splendidly 

happy." 

And  so  they  are.  .  .  « 


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